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ANTONIO MORENO AS ALAN HOLT AND AGNES AYRES AS MARY WALSWORTH. 









V 

THE STORY 
WITHOUT A NAME 


BY 

ARTHUR STRINGER 

AND 

RUSSELL tJOLMAN 


ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES 
FROM THE PHOTOPLAY “ 
A PARAMOUNT PICTURE 


m 


GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


Mack in the United States of America 









Copyright, 1924 

By The Bobbs-Merrill Company 


/ 


Printed in the United States of America 


NOV 24 *24 

©C1A8079G7 (J 





CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Crash at the Bridge.: 

II Two Visitors in Latham.16 

III The Man under the Bed.33 

IV The Lady in Henna.49 

V The Master Mind.65 

VI Coils of the Serpent.79 

VII The Farm-House near the Links.94 

VIII The Bolt from the Blue.103 

IX Tapped Wireless.119 

X The Attack on the Tower.127 

XI Against Heavy Odds.143 

XII The Courage of Mary Walsworth.160 

XIII In the Hands of the Enemy.170 

XIV The Deck of Last Ordeals.188 

XV The Island of Endurance.195 

XVI The Awakening of the Admiral.207 

XVII The Coming of Dolores.216 

XVIII Alan Makes a Sally.229 

XIX A Woman Scorned.237 

XX The Answer from the Sky.249 

XXI The Response to the Call. .261 

XXII The Race to the Rescue.268 

XXIII At the Mercy of the Deep.285 

XXIV At the End of the Race.292 

XXV Rewards.304 

XXVI The Kiss on the Bridge ..314 






























X 


THE STORY WITH¬ 
OUT A NAME 


CHAPTER I 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 



'HE peace of the lazy May afternoon was sud- 


JL denly shattered by twin droning noises, growing 
steadily louder, as if two rival armies of bees were 
approaching at a breakneck pace. The drones increased 
into roars, roars that echoed through the woods lining 
the road, as two motor-cars approached, violating all 
known speed-laws and tearing up the rustic Maryland 
landscape in brown clouds of dust ballooning in their 


wakes. 


The runabout was racing in the lead, but the big 
touring-car was pressing it closely, its glinting radia¬ 
tor-cap almost even with the left rear wheel of the 
other car. Down a little hill the cars swooped, both 


2 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


rising for an instant completely clear of the road as 
they struck the “thank-you-ma’am” at the bottom. 
Fifty yards farther on the touring-car had gained until 
it was exactly abreast of the runabout. They took the 
sharp turn to the left and plunged up the grade leading 
to the bridge, neck and neck. 

And here came catastrophe. 

For the turn and the bridge were evidently sur¬ 
prises to both drivers. It was a small wooden bridge 
spanning a ravine and a narrow stream running swiftly 
far below. A stout railing stretched along either side 
of the road, across the bridge and for some distance 
beyond. There was room for two cars on the bridge, 
provided they were driven carefully. But it had not 
been built for speed maniacs. 

The brief thunder of the flying automobiles over 
the loose planks was followed by a splintering crash. 
And when the immediate dust cleared away, more dust 
could be observed a quarter of a mile down the road. 
But it was not so much dust as before, for only one 
car was scuffing it up. The hood and front wheels of 
the other hung suspended in mid-air over the ravine, 
the glass of the front lights and wind-shield was no 
more, and at first sight it seemed a flagrant violation 
of the laws of gravity that the car was there at all and 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 3 

not a twisted mass of metal at the bottom of the rock- 
studded ravine. Nor was it any less of a surprise to 
the man and the girl in the once trim red runabout 
to discover, after blinking and wiggling cautiously 
about a little, that they were alive and apparently in 
good health. To be sure, blood was trickling down 
their faces where small fragments of glass had pene¬ 
trated the skin, but it was in both cases a negligible 
amount of blood, hardly more than the man had often 
caused to flow when he shaved too rapidly. It was not 
even sufficient blood to prevent the man, who was 
over fifty and wore the white summer uniform of a 
naval officer with an impressive amount of gold braid 
upon his epaulets, to address his first remark in a 
somewhat shaken voice to the girl. 

“Well, Mary, I hope you’re satisfied now!” 

“I am!” was the wry response. 

“I told you you’d break both of our necks some 
day. You’ve come pretty near doing it.” 

“I know,” answered the girl, striving to compose 
her badly shaken nerves. “I was a fool, and it’s all my 
fault!” 

“It is, and you are,” acknowledged her father, 
agreeing to both statements. 

“But are you sure you’re all right, dad?” 


4 the story without a name 

“I suppose so/’ grunted the still indignant naval 
man. 

The girl’s face was gradually losing its sheet-white¬ 
ness and recovering its accustomed brown and pink. 
She pushed deft fingers into her disheveled brown hair. 

“We should, by rights, be dead,” she said with 
meditative slowness. “But listen, dad, the motor’s 
still turning over. Isn’t that a miracle ?” 

“It is,” acknowledged her parent. 

“And what the dickens kept us from going over the 
bank?” continued the preoccupied girl. “I had abso¬ 
lutely no control of the car. That great selfish brute 
simply swerved over into us and knocked us off the 
map. He hogged the road. And never even stopped 
to pick up our remains.” 

Anger flamed into her face a moment and then 
paled away. She leaned cautiously out of the open 
window of the car and uttered an exclamation. 

“Look, dad, we broke that heavy log railing and a 
piece of it is jabbed in between our rear mud-guard 
and the side of the car. That’s what’s holding us. 
Isn’t it a miracle? I believe if I shoved her into re¬ 
verse, I could back out on the road again.” 

But Admiral Charles Pinckney Walsworth was in 
no mood to tempt fate a second time that afternoon. 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 5 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” he proclaimed in 
his sharpest quarterdeck voice. “We’ll both get out 
of here. We’ll get out this instant, before we drop 
into those rocks and bushes. You go first, and take 
it very easy.” 

Mary shrugged her shoulders slightly, but obeyed. 
Struggling briefly with the door, which had been 
somewhat battered, she opened it, and stepped gingerly 
out upon the running-board, tilted at a rakish slant, 
and so into the dusty underbrush and to the side of 
the road. Her father followed without mishap. By 
the time they had made this progress, a tall overalled 
figure, attracted by the crash, was approaching them 
rapidly. The newcomer proved to be a raw-boned 
farmer who, seeming a bit disappointed that Mary and 
her father were alive, mopped his face with a bandanna 
handkerchief and blandly asked: “Had a mishap?” 

“Yes,” snapped Admiral Walsworth. “Where’s 
the nearest garage?” 

“Latham is the closest,” answered the farmer in a 
soft Maryland drawl. 

“Is there a telephone anywhere around here?” asked 
the admiral. He felt rather ridiculous, his usually 
immaculate clothes splotched with dirt and grease, his 
face smeary with blood, and the absence of his cap 


6 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


revealing the sparseness of his graying hair. Admiral 
Walsworth prided himself always on his appearance. 

“There’s one over to my place, just down the road 
a piece,” said the farmer, and rather reluctantly led 
the way. 

Mary found that the crash had put kinks into her 
athletic young body. She even explored a bruise or 
two as she followed the two men down the road. She 
was not at all sure that everything was well in her 
upper rib region, where the steering wheel had dug 
sharply when the car came to its extemporaneous halt. 
And she had vague qualms that the cut over her eye, 
which she daubed furtively with her handkerchief, 
might leave a scar. This last would have been a 
calamity, for Mary Walsworth’s was the sort of face 
which stood a distinct contribution to the world’s store 
of beauty. But she resolved to confide neither of her 
wounds to her father, for the accident had been entirely 
her doing, she now freely admitted. She had induced 
the admiral to drop his work at the Navy Building 
and come with her for a spin into the country through 
the glorious May sunshine. She had resented the way 
the big brown touring-car had swung past them and 
then cut in so sharply that the mud-guards of the two 
machines grated. She had stepped on the gas, passed 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 


Z 


and cut in on the touring-car in turn, and flashed a 
mocking smile at its four male occupants in retaliation 
for the jeers they had lavished upon her. When the 
other car set out after her, Mary, her sporting blood 
aroused, had disregarded the restraining commands of 
her father and piled on more and more gas until— 

“Call Latham 15—Hurley’s Garage,” advised the 
farmer when he had escorted them into his stuffy 
parlor and to the old-fashioned telephone placed 
against the wall. 

Hurley’s, two miles away, assured the admiral that 
they would send a car right out. 

“My missus has gone t’ town,” explained the coun¬ 
tryman, who was impressed, obviously, with the gold 
on Admiral Walsworth’s shoulders, “or she’d make 
you a cup o’ tea or something. You’re welcome to sit 
here and wait for Hurley if you want to. He has t’ 
pass this way.” 

“No, thank you,” snapped the admiral. “But if 
there’s some place where we can wash up a little—” 

He sniffed when he discovered that the toilet facili¬ 
ties consisted of a basin filled with ice-cold water 
drawn from an outside pump. Mary made temporary 
repairs to her face and hands, answering their host’s 
questions about the accident cheerfully enough, and 


8 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


the latter confined his conversation to her after that. 
The admiral followed her at the basin and even at¬ 
tempted to use the almost toothless comb that was 
offered him. Then he thanked the rustic rather 
bruskly and announced that they would return to the 
wrecked car and await their rescuer, and incidentally 
discover the whereabouts of his missing cap. For an 
admiral without his cap is like a ship without a rudder. 

When the man from Hurley’s rattled up in a dusty 
Ford touring-car some fifteen minutes later, he proved 
to be a husky, dark-haired young chap in brown over¬ 
alls who pleased Mary at once with the manner in 
which he sized up the situation and took command 
of it. 

She resented it, however, when, stepping on to the 
running-board of the car, she suggested, “The engine 
can be started. I think I can get in and back the 
car out,” and the garage-man answered abruptly, 
“Keep out of the car, please. It may topple over into 
the ravine any minute.” 

Mary Walsworth was not used to being ordered 
around, and even the admiral bristled at the young 
man. The latter, ignoring them, produced a rope 
from the tonneau of his Ford and set about fastening 
it to the rear axle of the runabout. Looping the other 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 


9 


end of the rope about the rear axle of his own car, he 
called sharply, “Stand clear, please,” and swung in be¬ 
hind the steering wheel of the Ford. Admiral Wals- 
worth, who had recovered his precious cap from under¬ 
neath the injured machine, straightened up and shot a 
withering look at the mechanic’s back, but obeyed. 
There was a splintering of wood and a screech of 
metal as the Ford started and a moment of uncertainty 
as to whether it possessed sufficient power to pull the 
larger car clear. But then the wedged-in log yielded, 
and the strange convoy was soon in the middle of 
the road. 

“If you two will jump in with me,” suggested the 
young man, mopping his perspiring face and obviously 
pleased that his plan had worked, “I’ll take you and 
your car back to Latham. You’re from Washington, 
aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” Mary answered, “and we’d rather like to get 
back there. We both have dinner engagements. And 
Latham isn’t on the railroad line, is it?” 

“No,” said the young man. He was a very nice- 
looking young man, Mary decided. Black, curly hair 
and brown eyes set in tanned face with a very square 
jaw. “But I can get another car and drive you in. 
It’s only eighteen miles.” 


10 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“That would be fine,” said Mary with considerable 
relief. She knew the recriminations her short-tem¬ 
pered father would heap upon her if he was forced 
to miss a dinner engagement on account of her folly. 
Especially this engagement. 

Arrived in Latham, a sleepy little one-street town as 
antiquated as if it were 1864 instead of 1924 and hun¬ 
dreds of miles from a railroad instead of less than an 
hour from either Baltimore or Washington, they drew 
up in front of Hurley’s Garage, a surprisingly mod¬ 
ern-looking establishment. Their arrival brought out 
the proprietor, a corpulent, elderly man, who inspected 
the wrecked runabout and said he could repair it in a 
week and seconded his assistant’s idea that the latter 
drive the Walsworths into Washington. The young 
man in the brown overalls disappeared for about ten 
minutes, during which the admiral muttered impatient 
sea-going things under his breath. 

“Alan’s gone home to change his clothes,” Hurley 
explained to Mary. “He lives just down the road. 
You can see his house from here.” 

“Then his name is Alan,” Mary mused. 

“Yes—Alan Holt. Mighty nice boy, too.” 

Holt was dressed in a neat brown suit and had 
slicked up his hair when he returned. Without a word 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 


ii 


he started backing out one of Hurley’s touring-cars, 
and Mary, without consulting anybody, slipped into 
the front seat beside him, leaving the tonneau to her 
father. 

“You’re not such a slow driver yourself,” Mary 
suggested slyly, after they had reeled off five miles 
or more and her companion showed no signs of 
speaking to her. 

“You said you had a dinner engagement, Miss Wals- 
worth,” he reminded her. “And it’s six now.” 

She started. “How did you know my name?” 

He smiled. “I served in the Atlantic Fleet during 
the war. Your father came aboard our ship a couple 
of times. I was on a destroyer.” 

“What branch of the Navy were you in, Mr. Holt?” 

It was his turn to be startled. But he guessed cor¬ 
rectly that Hurley had been gossiping, as usual. “I 
was a junior lieutenant, engineering.” 

“But how do you happen now to be working in—” 
Then she blushed and caught herself. 

“How do I happen to be working in a country 
garage?” He was not in the slightest perturbed. 
“Well, my father’s dead, and my mother didn’t want 
to leave Latham. I’m all she’s got. And, besides, vet¬ 
erans can’t be choosers where they work these days. 


12 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

can they? If my dad hadn’t died, I’d probably have 
gone to Boston Tech and been an electrical engineer. 
And if it weren’t for mother, I’d maybe have stuck in 
the Navy. But I’m satisfied.” 

Mary decided, from the way he unconsciously 
flexed his jaw and from the wistful look that flitted 
momentarily into his dark eyes, that he wasn’t. 

“Why do you say you’re satisfied?” she finally 

asked. 

“Because I’m working on something now,” Alan 
explained after a little hesitation and with a slight 
backward look toward Admiral Walsworth, who was 
slumped gloomily and most unmilitarily in the com¬ 
fortable back seat, “that may take me out of the 
garage.” 

“Really?” encouraged Mary. “An invention?” 
She suspected shrewdly that if this young man knew 
her father’s name, he knew also that Admiral Wals¬ 
worth was head of the Naval Consulting Board and 
was perhaps not without a hope to interest the naval 
man in some scheme or other. One or two young 
men had already sought to use Mary as a means of 
getting in touch with her crusty and quick-tempered 
parent, and she had resented it and taken pleasure in 
thwarting them. But this was such a frank, patently 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 


13 


honest young man, even though the impersonal man¬ 
ner in which he addressed her and looked at her was 
not flattering. 

"You’ve been reading in the papers about this 'death 
ray’ that a chap from Europe claims to have invent¬ 
ed?” asked Alan. "An electrically controlled device 
that will sink ships, kill people, and all that?” 

Mary nodded. 

"The thing is obviously a fake,” Alan went on. "I 
know, because I’ve been working on something like 
it myself in my spare time ever since I came out of 
the service. Only mine is going to be a success. Don’t 
smile. I can prove it. I’ve already done considerable 
with the miniature model I have in my workshed at 
home. There are one or two things I have to perfect 
yet. Then I’m going to offer it to the government.” 

Mary was interested. Impractical as the thing 
sounded, here was not the wild-eyed, rattle-brained 
type of inventor. Alan’s words carried conviction. 
She turned around to her father. 

"Dad, Mr. Holt has invented something that ought 
to interest you. A 'death-ray’ device for sinking ships 
and things by radio. Couldn’t you let him make an 
appointment with you and talk it over?” 

But Admiral Walsworth was chiefly interested at 


14 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


that moment in the fact that they were entering the 
suburbs of Washington and that he would in half an 
hour be in the presence of a charming dinner- 
companion. 

“I’ve had exactly twenty ‘death-ray’ inventions of¬ 
fered me in the last seven months,” he said ungra¬ 
ciously. Ever since this fool talk has been in the 
papers. None of them is worth anything. The thing 
is simply impossible.” 

Mine isn t, Alan snapped, keeping his eye on his 
business of steering but talking loud enough for the 
admiral to hear. 

“I really wish you’d look Mr.. Holt’s invention 
over,” pleaded Mary. Her father glanced at her 
sharply. Why was she taking such a sudden interest 
in this fellow, a mere garage employee, anyway? 

“If Mr. Holt will deliver me at the Hotel Selfridge 
within ten minutes,” scowled the admiral, “he can 
write me a letter about his scheme and ship the model 
to me, if he has any.” 

All right, Alan told him, and stepped on the gas. 

They were soon dodging through the traffic in the 
heart of Washington. Crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, 
Alan located the quiet shady street upon which the 
Selfridge, an aristocratic little menage, an abode of 
senators and other high officials, was located. 


THE CRASH AT THE BRIDGE 15 

When the car had stopped before the door and Mary 
had alighted, she turned to their driver and said, smil¬ 
ing, “I surely hope father will see possibilities in your 
invention and tell you to come to Washington and 
demonstrate it before the Board. When you do, you 
must look me up.” 

“1 will,” Alan answered, and for the first time his 
face showed its awareness that for nearly three- 
quarters of an hour it had been very near to a very 
attractive girl. 


CHAPTER II 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 

VERY dark brown head and a blond head were 



a \ bent over a little black box mounted on a crude 
work-bench. The owner of the tousled blackish hair 
was manipulating the switch and the dial set in the 
face of the box and watching anxiously the thin black 
needle in the clock-like arrangement under the dial. 
Suddenly he uttered a low exclamation, and both heads 
were sharply raised and pointed across the room where 
a piece of tin mounted upon asbestos was nailed to the 
plain boarded wall. The dark-headed young man 
jumped up and hurried over to the tin. His serious, 
rather moody, tanned face broke into a smile as he 
looked at the black smudge that soiled the shining 
brightness of the tin. 

“I got it that time, Don,” he said to his blond 
companion, who was dressed in the uniform of a ser¬ 
geant of Marines. 


16 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 1 7 

Don Powell slid over and inspected the tin. 

“Say, you did at that,” he exclaimed admiringly and 
a little awed. “Alan, you’ve got something real here. 

“I will have after I work it out some,” agreed Alan 
Holt. “The focus is not nearly sharp enough. I’m 
afraid I’ll never be able to do much just with a model 
run by storage batteries. If I only had a lot of money, 
or could get it, and could go into this thing right. 

“Haven’t you heard from the Navy yet?” 

“No, I wrote to Admiral Walsworth over a month 
ago and haven’t had a word from him. I guess he 
thinks I’m just another crank.” 

“If you could only get him down here and show him 
what you’ve just shown me—” 

“A fine chance,” Alan said somewhat bitterly. 

Don Powell glanced at him sympathetically. Don, 
a sturdy young chap of twenty-two, a couple of years 
younger than Alan, was a native of Latham, and 
Alan’s best friend. He was also the only person be¬ 
sides his mother whom Alan had taken into his confi¬ 
dence regarding the radio triangulating device he was 
working on in the little workshop he had built in the 
rear of the Holt home. Alan had always been inter¬ 
ested in electricity. He had been one of the pioneers 
in radio, having constructed for himself a receiving 


18 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


and broadcasting outfit long before they came into 
general use and radio developed into the fad of the 
hour. Now he was quite sure he was on the track of 
the most important invention since wireless had been 
discovered—a device for triangulating radio rays, con¬ 
centrating them into a single ray of such tremendous 
force that it would sink ships and set fire to cities. A 
thing so dreadful in its possibilities that at the first 
signs of success in perfecting it, an awesome fear had 
gripped Alan along with the feeling of exultation. It 
was almost like attempting to tamper with something 
superhuman. 

He had been working on the triangulator now for 
nearly two years, He was so constantly at it that his 
eyes had become affected, and he was forced to wear 
tortoise-shelled glasses when he worked, giving himself 
a somewhat owlish look. “They make me look more 
like an honest-to-goodness inventor/’ Alan had assured 
his mother, half gaily, when she protested regarding 
possible inroads upon his health that his constant appli¬ 
cation to his workshop would cause. Mrs. Holt was of 
Quaker stock, and it was only because of Alan’s assur¬ 
ance that his device, if successful, would not be used 
for destruction but to end all wars that she approved 
of it. 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 19 

“Once I’ve got it in shape,” he outlined his inten¬ 
tions to her, “I’ll offer it to the Navy. If they take 
it, this country will be placed in a position where the 
rest of the world will be so afraid of us there’ll never 
be another war involving us. And the United States 
will be able to prevent wars between other nations 
simply by threatening to jump in with the death ray 
and burn the offenders off the face of the earth.” 

But so far, despite three letters to Admiral Wals- 
worth describing his device and his offer to come to 
Washington at any time and place his model and his 
own services at the disposal of the government, Alan 
had found his native country indifferent to the mighty 
asset with which he was altruistically seeking to pre¬ 
sent it. He realized that the invention was still far 
from being in a state of perfection, but it had demon¬ 
strated to him even now that he was on the right track 
at last. His recent experiment with the piece of tin 
had proved that all he needed was a refinement of the 
instrument that would permit a sharper and surer focus 
and the means to construct a real machine of many 
times the power and size of this one. He had worked 
it all out, just how this real machine was to be made. 
He even had blue-prints of it in the drawer of the 
old-fashioned bird’s-eye-maple desk, that had been his 


20 THE STORY WITHOUT A* NAME 

father’s, right here in his workshop. But what was 
the use? If his country didn’t want it, he might as 
well quit. He wouldn’t commercialize this death¬ 
dealing monster, peddle it surreptitiously among the 
representatives of foreign countries, as that fellow in 
the newspapers was doing, under any circumstances. 

“The old man, of course, thinks you’re just another 
one of these crank inventors who pester him,” said 
Don Powell thoughtfully, referring thus disrespectfully 
to Admiral Charles Pinckney Walsworth, but feeling 
justified in doing so since he was on a forty-eight hour 
week-end leave and consequently outside the jurisdic¬ 
tion of the Washington Navy Yard. “Now if you 
could only break into the limelight like this death-ray 
chap in the newspapers, they’d pay some attention to 
you. A sergeant at the barracks who has been on 
orderly duty up at the Consulting Board was telling 
me on the q. t. that the big boys in the Navy have 
looked over this newspaper chap’s Meath ray’ and pro¬ 
nounced it the bunk. That makes them twice as skepti¬ 
cal as they might otherwise be of anything like it. But 
if you could manage to kick up a lot of talk about 
yours, they d feel they had to give it the once-over.” 

“Well, if they did,” Alan said, confidently if a bit 
gloomily, “I could show them something that would 
open their eyes, even with this crude model.” 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 


21; 


Don’s face suddenly brightened. 

“There’s a man named Waldron,” he proposed, “a 
reporter from the Washington News who hangs 
around the barracks a lot after news. I tip him off 
sometimes, and we’ve become quite friends. Suppose 
I tell him about you. He might see a Sunday story 
in it, particularly because of the public interest that’s 
been stirred up about this death-ray business. Per¬ 
haps he’d come down and talk to you. What do you 
say?” 

“Oh, send him along if you like, Don,” Alan replied. 
In spite of the successful outcome of the test of his 
machine he had just made, he was in a discouraged 
mood. “Meantime, phone your folks and tell them 
you’re staying to chow with mother and me. And now 
let’s go and wash up. Mother called us a half-hour 
ago.” 

Tom Waldron of the Washington News proved 
much easier to approach and more credulous than Ad¬ 
miral Walsworth, and three days later Dave Hurley 
summoned Alan, overalled and very greasy, from 
under the innards of an automobile with which he was 
tinkering, to confront a lean, sharp-eyed, middle-aged 
stranger. 


22 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“Holt?” asked the latter. “Em Waldron of the 
News. Friend of Powell’s.” 

Five minutes later Alan had secured a brief leave 
of absence from the garage and was pointing out the 
features of his mechanical obsession with carefully 
modulated enthusiasm to the reporter. A few deft 
adjustments, and he was repeating the experiment with 
the tin sheet which he had performed for Don. 

The reporter took a few notes on scraps of paper 
which he had wadded in his pocket. “It’s a story, all 
right,” he admitted. “I’m not mechanic enough to 
write it from the technical angle, and probably you 
wouldn’t want me to give away too much, anyway. 
But look for the News a week from Sunday. By the 
way, I understand you tried to get the Consulting 
Board people interested.” 

“Yes,” answered Alan. “But I didn’t get a tumble.” 

“Walsworth is a crab,” said the reporter, “and 
rather stupid. But they may sit up and take notice 
when they read my story.” 

Alan wondered if this were just egotism on this 
rather cocky reporter’s part. He even wondered if 
Waldron would ever write a story. 

But ten days later the story appeared, even to the 
picture of Alan which he had reluctantly yielded to the 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 


23 


newspaper-man, though he had refused to permit a 
photograph to be made of his invention. The story 
occupied a prominent place in the magazine section of 
the paper along with “Heiresses I Have Wooed and 
Won. By Count Boni de Merchante” and “Stage 
Favorite Reveals Beauty Secrets.” Not a very digni¬ 
fied environment for a scientific discovery that might 
revolutionize the world, thought Alan, and he felt a 
vague resentment against Waldron, who had probably 
in his own mind classed Alan’s invention with the 
bogus confessions of the French nobleman and the 
worthless beauty bromides of the theatrical celebrity. 
The story, Alan was convinced, would probably do 
more harm than good. 

But at least it got action. For, three days later, 
Alan was again called from a repair job by his em¬ 
ployer, and the interruption this time was caused by 
a dark, foreign-looking gentleman with waxed, 
authoritative mustache ends, a bamboo cane, and im¬ 
maculate attire that fairly cried protests at being 
whirled over dusty country roads in the smart run¬ 
about car that stood at the curb outside the garage. 

“Mr. Holt?” asked the stranger in a slightly foreign 
accent. “I should like ver’ much to see you privately.” 

With a disapproving sniff Dave Hurley moved 
away. 


24 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“I understan’ you have a radio invention, the 
stranger continued in a low voice. I have read of it 
in the paper. I am ver’ much interested in radio. 
Perhaps you will show it to me. I can do you good 
maybe.” 

Alan did not particularly fancy the looks of this 
stranger, who announced his name as Christoff, was 
shifty as to eyes and slightly redolent with perfume. 
Nevertheless, since it was the noon hour anyway, the 
young man doffed his overalls, washed up and slid 
into the runabout with his visitor. 

Out in Alan’s workshop Christoff listened intently 
to all that Alan had to say about the death-ray machine. 
Pie darted sharp black eyes everywhere as young Holt 
shoved on the juice and repeated for the third time the 
tin-sheet experiment. Christoff, without asking per¬ 
mission, even laid hands upon the lever and the dial 
and himself manipulated them.’ He further aroused 
Alan’s suspicion by requesting that he remove the face 
of the black box and show the mechanism inside. 

Alan’s lips tightened and he glanced keenly at his 
presumptuous caller. “No,” said Holt, “I’m not show¬ 
ing the inside of this thing to anybody. I hope and 
expect the machine will be the property of the United 
States Government some day, and so it’s a secret.” 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 


25 


You would, I suppose/’ Christoff suggested 
suavely, “dispose of it elsewhere, if you could get your 
price, would you not?” 

“No. If the government doesn’t want it, I’ll break 
it up.” 

“The government is, if you will permit me to say it, 
a leetle slow in seeing the value of things like this. And 
if they do see the value, Meester Holt, they do not pay 
ver’ much.” 

“I’m an American, Mr. Christoff, and it’s a matter 
of duty and principle to me.” 

Christoff shrugged his trim shoulders. 

“I know. But you have offered your invention to 
the government. They are not interested. I am. I 
do not say that your machine will do what you think 
it will. Maybe not. It is ver’ crude now. Enlarged, 
it might be a complete failure. However, I will take 
a chance—my partners and myself. I will give you 
five thousand dollars for this model and any plans for 
a regular size machine you may have. What do you 
say?” 

Alan shook his head in the negative. 

“Ten thousand?” 

“No. I’m not interested in selling to private parties, 

I told you.” 


26 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


“You will reconsider, maybe.” 

The black eyes of the stranger had narrowed. His 
swarthy face bore a baffled and slightly sinister 
expression. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Here is my card, with the address on it. You can 
get in touch with me any time.” 

Alan took the proffered card. Five minutes later 
he was saying good-by to the stranger at the gate of 
the Holt home. He walked thoughtfully back toward 
the house. But he did not go in at once to the lunch 
which his mother had waiting for him and to which 
he had not invited Christoff because he did not like 
him and was anxious to get rid of his vaguely dis¬ 
turbing company. He followed the path around the 
house to his workshop, entered, and, approaching his 
precious machine, removed from it the enfilading key, 
which was the prime secret of the invention and with¬ 
out which the mechanism was powerless. He could 
not at the time have told why he did it, but he knew 
it had something to do with the aura of suspicion 
which somehow surrounded this Christoff. Having 
slipped the key into his pocket, Alan went in to lunch. 

Alan spent an hour in his workshop after dinner 
that night. When he had finished, he not only again 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 


27 


placed the enfilading key in his pocket but, unscrew¬ 
ing the face of the container, disconnected some of the 
more important wiring and thrust the wires in his 
trousers pocket, along with the key. Then he replaced 
the front of the machine. He also made sure the door 
of the shed was securely padlocked. Then he laughed 
uneasily at himself and, wondering why he was such 
a fool, went to bed. 

After breakfast the next morning, the same vague 
suspicion drew him out to the workshop for a hasty 
glance around before he left for the garage. There, 
he saw at a glance, his suspicion had been confirmed. 
The padlock had been smashed during the night. 
With a little cry of rage and fear, he bounded into 
the shed. Then his arms dropped to his side and he 
stood stunned. The death-ray model was gone. The 
black box had been unscrewed from its base on the 
work-bench and had vanished utterly. Even the tin- 
sheet had been removed from the wall opposite. 

Christoff! He was at the bottom of this. Alan 
pulled the stranger’s card from his pocket and gl0v- 
ered at it. Then he went grimly into the house and 
called the Washington Navy Yard. After five min¬ 
utes the reply came over the wire that Sergeant 
Powell was at mess and couldn’t be disturbed. Would 


28 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


Mr. Holt leave a message? Alan requested that Ser¬ 
geant Powell call him at Hurley’s Garage as soon as 
possible. 

Don telephoned about noon, and Alan told him the 
news, repeating Christoff’s address from the card to 
the Marine and asking that he look the suspected 
stranger up. 

“That must be somewhere near the Hotel Self ridge,” 
Don replied. “I’m off at noon to-day for a forty- 
eight. I’ll look this bird up and see what I can do. 
I’ll see you in Latham this afternoon.” 

When Don arrived at Hurley’s Garage about four 
that Saturday afternoon, he drove up in the dirty Ford 
sedan owned by Tom Waldron of the News, and 
Waldron was in the front seat with him. 

“It’s the Selfridge, all right,” Don told the eager 
Alan, “but they don’t know anybody named Christoff 
there nor anybody answering your description of him.” 
He turned to his traveling companion. “You’ve met 
Tom Waldron, of course, Alan. I tipped him off, and 
he wanted to come along.” 

“I want to apologize, Holt,” said Waldron frankly, 
“at the rather flippant way I wrote up your invention. 
I’ll admit I wasn’t terribly impressed at the time. 
But I am now. If somebody’s trying to steal it, there 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 


29 

must be something in it. Particularly if the thief’s 
the party I think it is.” 

“You know this man Christoff?” Alan asked 

“I’m not sure. But I’ve a sneaking suspicion he’s 
connected with Drakma’s gang.” When this appar¬ 
ently did not convey any startling enlightenment to 
the two Latham men, he asked in surprise, “Haven’t 
you heard of Drakma? I thought everybody had 
heard of that fish, although nobody knows much about 
him. He’s Washington’s big mystery. Travels 
around in the best of society, has plenty of coin, enter¬ 
tains lavishly, knows all the senators and congress¬ 
men and diplomats! Where he gets his money and 
what he does for a living, people don’t know. He’s 
been several times suspected by the Secret Service of 
quietly appropriating government secrets. You re¬ 
member the big hullabaloo there was in the paper about 
the Haitian treaty disappearance and again when the 
secret wheat code was stolen from the British Em¬ 
bassy? The insiders knew Drakma was suspected, in 
both cases. And he’s also supposed to be the largest 
wholesale bootlegger in the United States. But no¬ 
body has been able to hang anything on to him. My 
paper’s been after him for two years, and I’ve done a 
lot of investigating myself, both on assignment and 


30 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

privately. I’ve become acquainted with the faces of a 
number of people who, I think, are his operatives. 
Anything like your death-ray machine would be fine 
prey for Drakma. And this fellow Christoff of yours 
certainly wears a Drakma make-up. He’s a Russian 
and very close to Drakma. Probably they read my 
story about your invention and went out to get it. 
Offered you money at first, though the chances are 
they never intended to pay you, and then stole it with 
the intention of selling it to some foreign government.” 

“But what can we do about it?” Alan asked. 

Waldron shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, I 
guess. Trying to get Drakma is like butting up 
against a stone wall. Two-thirds of Washington 
would say you were crazy if you even intimated he 
was crooked. Is your whole invention lost, now that 
the model is missing?” 

“No,” Alan admitted. “I can eventually construct 
another model. And I luckily had sense enough to 
pull some of it apart so it won’t be much good to 
them!” 

“Well, you should worry then,” was Waldron’s 
philosophic comment. “Meantime I’ll phone the 
story of the theft in to my paper. They ought to give 
it the front page, and maybe that will bring you to the 


TWO VISITORS IN LATHAM 


3i 


notice of the Navy people. I’ll try to pull some 
wires there. I have a slight drag, and I'm really inter¬ 
ested in this thing now. And I’ll nose around among 
Drakma’s people, too. 

As predicted, Waldron landed the story of the theft 
of Alan’s invention on the front page with a two-line 
scare-head. The result was surprising. It came in the 
form of a letter in a feminine hand addressed to Alan 
at Hurley’s Garage. He wiped his greasy hands on his 
overalls and opened the dainty missive. He read: 

“Dear Mr. Holt: 

“I was so sorry to hear about the theft of your in¬ 
vention. I showed the newspaper story to my father, 
and he was interested at once. Yesterday a reporter 
from the News, a Mr. Waldron, came to the hotel for 
an interview with father and spoke about you and your 
death ray. I think you will hear from the Navy De¬ 
partment soon now, and I am very glad. You know 
it is quite characteristic to be more eager to get some¬ 
thing when you know some one else is after it. 

“Sincerely, 

“Mary Walsworth.” 

Alan put the letter into his pocket thoughtfully. 
The attractive girl who had sat beside him on the trip 
to Washington over a month ago had been in his 
mind more than he would care to admit, even to him- 


32 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


self. Mingled with his satisfaction that he was at last 
to get some recognition from her father was the 
thought that she still had sufficient interest in him to 
influence her to sit down and write to him. 

True to Mary’s forecast, the letter from the Navy 
Department arrived a few days later, couched in the 
stiff formal language of the Service and signed by 
Admiral Walsworth. It invited Alan to appear before 
the Consulting Board at eleven o’clock a week from 
the following Tuesday morning and submit his inven¬ 
tion. It hoped by that time that he would have con¬ 
structed a new model and be prepared to demonstrate 
it. Alan, who had spent two years building his first 
model, smiled grimly. But he could do it. He had 
to do it. 

Over the quiet protest of his mother, he gave up his 
job at Hurley’s and prepared to spend every minute 
possible of the next two weeks preparing for the ordeal 
—-and big chance—of his life before the Naval 
bureaucrats at Washington. 


CHAPTER III 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 

<<JF YOU will report here at ten o’clock: on Thurs- 

1 day morning,” they had told Alan, “we will let 
you know our final verdict.” And he had with diffi¬ 
culty restrained a sigh of utter mental and physical 
weariness and agreed. Indeed he had been through so 
much during the past two weeks in Washington that 
he had nearly lost interest in what that final verdict 
might be and was only concerned about cutting his way 
out through this seemingly interminable maze of 
bureaucratic red tape and getting back to the simple 
peace and quiet of Latham. Washington had only one 
attraction for him. She was blonde and lithe and had 
nearly lost her life in an automobile crash on the Bal¬ 
timore Turnpike. And her name was Mary Wals- 
worth. 

Alan had seen much of Mary since meeting her 
again by accident that first day he had appeared before 


33 


34 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


the Consulting Board, and, coming out of the Navy 
Building after the interview, had spied her, fresh and 
fragrant as apple-blossoms in cool summer white and 
smiling a welcome to him, sitting at the wheel of the 
repaired runabout at the curb. She was waiting for 
her father, she explained as she extended her hand in 
greeting. 

“He’ll be out in a few minutes,” she invited. “If 
you’ve nothing more exciting to do, jump in and wait 
with me and I’ll drop you at your hotel afterward.” 

Alan accepted, and in a twinkling he was sure he 
had not been foolish at all in keeping her face so con¬ 
stantly in his memory after that fateful crash at the 
Mill Bridge. 

“Well, I see you’ve been bearding the lions in their 
den,” she smiled. “How did you make out?” 

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “They told me to 
leave my model. And I’m to come back next week.” 

“That sounds favorable,” she encouraged. “I know 
father. He’s very cautious. But he’s just, too. If he 
didn’t turn you down flat, it’s a sure sign he is very 
much interested.” 

Alan did not tell her that Admiral Walsworth had 
been the most skeptical and supercilious of the officials 
who had questioned him. There seemed more im- 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 


35 


portant things to talk about. But five minutes more 
conversation with Mary, not altogether about inven¬ 
tions, and Alan saw, with regret, her father approach- 
ing. Nor did the frown and almost discourteous nod 
which the admiral shot Alan’s way, as Mary explained 
that they would drop Mr. Holt at his hotel, escape the 
young man. 

The conference with the Consulting Board proved 
only the first in a series. They questioned him until 
his brain was tired and his eyes were popping out. 
They brought electrical experts and had him rip his 
model apart and put it together again before their 
eyes. They took him out to the Aberdeen Proving 
Grounds and conducted experiments with high explo¬ 
sives. They disapproved of his leaving Washington 
even for a few hours to dash home and see his mother 
and accumulate fresh clothing, which, since he had 
expected to be away only a day or two, he badly 
needed. They kept insisting upon the most profound 
secrecy and issued orders to him so arbitrarily that he 
wondered if it were again war-time and he was back 
in the Navy. He even suspected that they had a 
Secret Service operative on his trail to see what he 
did in his few spare moments. 

But now, he told himself grimly, as he waited in 


36 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

the anteroom outside Admiral Walsworth’s office in 
the Navy Building, it would soon be over. He had 
definite assurance that he would be told that morning 
whether the government would condescend to dally 
further with the Holt Death Ray. This final con¬ 
ference had been set for ten o’clock, and it was now 
half past. But Alan had long since discovered that 
the promptness of Navy men varied inversely as the 
amount of gold braid on their shoulders, and Charles 
Pinckney Walsworth was an admiral. 

Indeed it was eleven o’clock before the uniformed 
orderlies who stood near the door exchanged a warn¬ 
ing growl, snapped to attention, and Admiral Wals- 
worth strode in, erect and immaculate in his white 
summer uniform, and without a glance to right or left 
disappeared into his office. It was another ten minutes 
before a buzzer sounded and Alan stood before him. 

“Good morning, Holt,” boomed the admiral, with¬ 
out asking Alan to sit down. The Navy man pondered 
a moment. “Are you in a position to take up duty at 
once with this Department as a civilian employee?” he 
finally asked. 

Alan nodded. 

“In that case,” the admiral continued, “the Depart¬ 
ment is prepared to conduct further experiments with 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 


37 


the device which you have submitted. We have select¬ 
ed a site on government property in a secluded spot 
about twenty miles from here, near the Potomac, and 
will construct the two towers which you specify in 
your blue-prints and will supply the equipment and 
personnel necessary. You will construct a Meath ray* 
machine there of the highest power possible and make 
the tests that will determine if the invention is really 
of any use to us. Upon your conclusive demonstration 
of its practicability, you will be paid a reasonable 
amount and royalties thereafter, the contract to be 
signed when the Department is convinced that the 
machine is a success. Is that satisfactory ?” 

Alan nodded in approval, surprised at himself for 
not being more greatly thrilled. 

“As I told you, ,, he explained, “Em not concerned 
about making a fortune out of this thing. I hope I'm 
patriotic enough for that.” 

Admiral Walsworth regarded him quizzically. He 
was not used to altruistic inventors. Usually these 
chaps wanted the earth, believed the government was 
rolling in wealth, and tried to annex the Treasury on 
their way out. But Alan was different. 

“Very well,” said the bureaucrat. “Another thing— 
we wish these experiments to attract as little attention 


38 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


as possible. Consequently I do not wish to assign a 
large force of assistants to you. There are people, you 
know, who would not stop at unscrupulous means to 
get possession of such a thing as this, to dispose of 
elsewhere.” 

“Such as my friend Christoff,” suggested Alan. 

“Oh—that!” pooh-poohed the admiral. “I am not 
particularly impressed by the theft of your play model. 
He may not have had anything to do with it.” In¬ 
deed, to Alan's irritation, Admiral Walsworth had on 
other occasions intimated that the stolen model had 
perhaps been young Holt’s own idea of a way of secur¬ 
ing publicity for his invention, even a frame-up be¬ 
tween the youth and Waldron, a very smart newspaper 
man. 

“One assistant would be enough, as far as I am 
concerned,” offered Alan. 

“Have you any one in your mind ?” 

Alan thought. “Sergeant Donald Powell, of the 
Marine Corps, has worked with me some on the 
machine,” he said. “He knows radio, and he’s thor¬ 
oughly trustworthy. He’s on duty at the Washington 
Navy Yard now.” 

“Very well. I will assign Powell to you. Also a 
Marine to guard the towers. The material should be 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 


39 


assembled in two or three days. You will then report 
there. It is about half a mile from Duryea, the nearest 
railway station, on a branch of the Atlantic Coast 
Line, near the Piney Ridge Golf Club. Meantime I 
will have you placed on the pay-roll, and you will 
start drawing a salary from to-day.” 

When Alan left the Navy Building after this mo¬ 
mentous meeting with Mary Walsworth’s father, 
Mary's runabout was again parked at the curb, and 
Mary was waiting patiently behind the wheel. But 
this time she was not waiting for her father. Indeed, 
she would have been very greatly disappointed had the 
admiral decided to shirk duty for the day and joined 
her. Her appointment was with Alan, and she was 
looking forward eagerly to crowning him, figuratively, 
with the laurel of a conqueror. For, in answer to her 
eager inquiries at breakfast, Admiral Walsworth had 
reluctantly yielded the information that the Navy had 
decided to “play with Holt’s invention for a while.” 
At her exclamation of exultation at this news, Wals¬ 
worth had looked at her and testily remarked, “You’re 
rather interested in this young fellow, aren’t you?” 

The vivid blush that stained her cheeks did not add 
to his peace of mind. 

He regarded her sternly, “Now don’t go and do 


40 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


something foolish,” he warned. “Just because this 
chap happens to be well set up and good-looking, don’t 
let him turn your head. He’s only a garage mechanic, 
you know. A girl in your position can’t afford to 
mix in with such people.” 

Mary was still flushed, but now anger was mingled 
with her blushes. “Alan is as good as gold,” she 
asserted. “I’ve met his family, which consists of his 
mother and himself, ,and she’s the sweetest old lady 
you’ve ever seen. And a Virginia Latham, when it 
comes to considering ancestors, which doesn’t mean a 
thing to me, is some pumpkins, as you know.” 

a So—he’s introduced you to his family?” 

“Why, yes. We drove over there the other day.” 

“You know I don’t approve of you running around 
with this garage fellow, don’t you?” 

But Mary Walsworth merely laughed. Her father 
was an old dear—at times. But he had always had 
more success managing a battle-ship than he had in 
managing his own daughter. 

As soon as Alan appeared from the marble-and-con- 
crete recesses of the Navy Building, Mary called out, 
“Hail the conquering hero!” And as he climbed, smil¬ 
ing in sympathy with her enthusiasm, into the low 
seat beside her, she continued: “I knew you would put 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 41 

it over, Alan! And now we’ll go for a drive out into 
the country and you can tell me all about it.” 

“If you’ll stop first at my hotel while I drop a line 
to my mother, I’ll be more than glad to go,” he 
agreed. Never, he felt, had Mary looked so charming, 
so utterly desirable. 

When she had slid the car to a halt in front of the 
modest little hotel where he was stopping, he sprang 
out, with the promise that he wouldn’t be a minute, 
and, not even waiting for the elevator, dashed up the 
stairs two steps at a time. Not even the pleasure of 
letting his mother know about his success could keep 
him long from Mary that day. 

But as he bounded into the small hot room, he 
stopped suddenly and listened. Despite the commo¬ 
tion he had made in flinging the door open, he thought 
he had detected a scurrying noise from within the 
room. Now all was quiet, but a vague uneasiness 
gripped him. He had a feeling that he was not alone. 
He glanced alertly around, but could see nothing amiss. 
The cheap pine bureau, the white iron bed, the lone and 
slightly rickety chair, with the hot noonday sun pour¬ 
ing in—everything seemed quite as usual. He had 
about decided his suspicion was groundless when the 
slight sound of a human sneeze, with incomplete sue- 


42 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


cess stifled, came to his ears. He glided softly toward 
the bed, stood there an instant, then dropped swiftly 
to the floor and grabbed violently for the pair of 
huddled-up legs that met his lightning glance. Before 
their owner could struggle, Alan had yanked him out 
into the open and flung himself upon him. 

It was Christoff. 

The battle was short but fierce. Christoff was no 
longer the suave bargainer. He was a dark fighting 
animal that did not hesitate to try to sink his teeth 
into the sturdy arms that held him and kick and heave 
with a ferocity that almost unseated Alan. But the 
young inventor’s attack had taken Christoff unawares 
and the grip the country boy had secured upon him 
thereby was too strong. Eventually the dark man’s 
struggles calmed and Alan was able to rip a sheet 
from the bed and bind him fast. Then Alan rose, 
lurched and braced himself at the bed-post a moment 
to get his breath and balance back, and telephoned the 
house detective. 

“I caught this man under my bed. He was evidently 
trying to rob me,” Alan explained to that burly, rather 
stupid worthy. “And I want him held and his record 
looked up.” When he had delivered his captive over 
into the detective’s charge and the two had departed. 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 


43 


Holt took a look around the room and discovered, to 
his relief, that Christoff had evidently been disturbed 
before he had a chance to steal anything. Alan thought 
he knew what the sinister visitor was after—the blue¬ 
prints of the death-ray machine. Probably he had 
discovered that the model he had taken at Latham 
would not work and sought something more useful. 
But his visit would have been useless in any case, for 
the precious plans were resting at present safely in 
the big vault in Admiral Walsworth’s office in the 
Navy Building. Alan had taken that precaution. 

As Alan walked into the bathroom, bathed his face, 
combed his hair anew and adjusted his disheveled at¬ 
tire, he was very thoughtful. He had a feeling that 
these attempts to rifle his possessions went a trifle 
further than just Christoff. Waldron’s talk about 
Mark Drakma had impressed him much more than it 
had Don Powell. Hostile, resourceful forces had been 
set in motion against him, he was convinced. Forces 
that appreciated the value of this death-ray device of 
his far more than did Admiral Walsworth and the 
Navy Department, who had reluctantly and condition¬ 
ally accepted it that day. He wondered if he should 
confide his suspicions to the admiral, probably to be 
laughed at. At least he would say nothing to Mary 


44 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


about the encounter with the man under the bed. She 
would be waiting. He must hurry. 

And when he joined her a few minutes later, he 
was unruffled and smiling, and she suspected nothing. 

Mary wove the runabout expertly and rather more 
swiftly than the law allowed through the crowded 
Washington traffic. Policemen have weaknesses for 
pretty ladies, particularly pretty, merry-faced young 
ladies who look at them with such appealing innocence 
when they raise grim warning hands. The two in the 
car were mostly silent, Mary intent upon her driving, 
Alan intent upon Mary. Soon they were in the quiet 
suburbs and then in the cooler, even quieter semi¬ 
countryside. 

They lunched at a country club where Mary often 
played golf and tennis amid a gay, sunburned crowd 
of white-clad young people, a score of congressmen, a 
senator or two, and at least one Cabinet officer, whose 
attempted dignity and pompous courtesy to the stout 
woman who accompanied him did not fit well with the 
hot unkempt sack suit and straggly beard he was 
wearing. Mary nodded to several of her friends, but, 
luckily, Alan thought, they did not join the admiral’s 
daughter and her handsome, if somewhat tired and 
pale-looking escort. 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 


45 


After luncheon they resumed their ride and, as if 
by mutual consent, turned off the well-traveled 
macadam on to a country road which they had ex¬ 
plored before, and in another half-hour were in a 
shadowy sylvan wilderness. Here Alan took matters 
into his own hands and maneuvered his foot over 
upon the brake. Mary smiled and turned the car to 
the side of the road. To the right of them was a 
dark woods, cut through near the road by a swift 
little stream that raced and gurgled over the rocks. 
That was the only sound, except for the peeping and 
scolding of birds and the drone of a mowing machine 
in a distant hay-field. 

They sat in silence for a moment, entranced by the 
peaceful scene, and then Alan reached over and took 
Mary’s unprotesting hand. 

“I didn’t want to say anything until I saw where I 
was coming out,” he said quietly. “But now that 
things seem fairly set at last—I guess you know, Mary, 
that I’ve been thinking a good deal about you these 
last few weeks.” 

Her face was stained a trifle pink, but she turned 
and, looking steadily at him, nodded. 

“And what does that mean?” she asked, a little 
unsteadily. 


46 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“It means I love you,” he answered, also a little 
unsteadily, “And I’m wondering if it could work 
both ways. Could it?” 

Waiting for Mary’s father’s verdict on his inven¬ 
tion was child’s play compared with this crucial 
suspense. 

“Both ways, Alan,” she laughed, and lifted her red 
lips for his kiss. 

The racing stream seemed to chatter more merrily 
than ever. 

“And whatever the outcome of my experiments with 
the machine, we belong to each other, always?” he 
asked anxiously, finally releasing her lips, but keeping 
his arm tightly around her. 

“Of course,” she agreed. 

“I hope you’ll never have any cause to regret saying 
that,” he said soberly. “I’ve reason to believe there 
are going to be some rocky times ahead for me. I may 
be in danger. I may even have to fight. But no 
harm will come to you. I’ll see to that.” And he took 
her in his arms and kissed her again. And though, 
feeling a vague fear, she asked him the real signifi¬ 
cance of what he had said, he would not explain and 
wished he had not even thus obscurely voiced his 


uneasiness. 


THE MAN UNDER THE BED 


r 4 7 


After a while she intimated an uneasiness of her 
own when she remarked as lightly as possible, “Of 
course there’s going to be a fearful row when I tell 
father.” 

“I suppose so,” replied Alan, grimly. He had be¬ 
come vaguely acquainted with Admiral Walsworth’s 
social ambitions for his daughter. He had become 
more definitely acquainted with the admiral’s disap¬ 
proval of him as a suitor. 

“He can never forget he’s a Walsworth,” the girl 
explained. “He’s so fearfully intent upon my marry¬ 
ing a title or a million! But I can manage him— 
never fear!” 

Alan was certain, at that moment, that Mary could 
and would manage anybody about as deftly as she did 
her swift little runabout. 

“Besides,” she went on, “you’re going to be famous, 
you know. A mere Embassy attache or an oil-million¬ 
aire will seem very tame and common compared with 
the world-famous inventor, Alan Holt.” 

“1 hope so,” he said, with a smile and a shrug of 
derogation. “But I’m not looking for fame and 
money out of this thing. My folks are Quakers, you 
know, and I’ve inherited a lot of their beliefs. I had 
the very deuce of a time getting my mother to consent 


48 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


to my enlisting when the war came along. I finally 
convinced her that it was the one war that was right, 
the war to end war. Well, it didn’t do that. But if 
my invention works, I’m firmly of the opinion it will 
make future wars simply impossible. And that’s why 
I’ve devoted two years to it and am going through 
with it now.” 

She patted his hand. “You just leave this particular 
little war with my father up to me,” she said, with a 
belligerent toss of her bobbed head. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


HOUGH Washington is the favorite resort of 



A American tourists and sight-seers, there is no city- 
in the world which contains so much that does not meet 
the eye, not only the casual eye of the visitor but also 
the experienced eye of the oldest inhabitant, and even 
the shrewdly trained eye of the Secret Service itself. 
But if the last-named agency has failed to see, it is not 
because its operatives have neglected to look. 

In Washington there is, of course, the personnel of 
government, the impressive administrative array head¬ 
ed by the president and ranging through Cabinet, sena¬ 
tors and congressmen down the line. The movements 
of all these are like so many open books. They court 
publicity, with considerable success. There are, as 
well, the representatives of foreign governments. 
These, too, bask in the limelight and on the front pages 
of our newspapers. Their movements in the dark are 


49 


50 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


few, far fewer than generally believed. There are the 
ordinary citizens of the capital city, voteless, for the 
most part working for the government short hours and 
on short pay, possessing slightly less energy and initia¬ 
tive than the privates in the army of business in other 
cities, but otherwise quite typical urban American 
products. And if the events of their, for the most 
part, eventless lives are not broadcast through press 
and camera, it is because they are not deemed of suffi¬ 
cient importance rather than because there is anything 
recondite about them. 

But there is a fourth and more interesting stratum 
of life in Washington—that consisting of the workers 
in the dark. 

Once in a blue moon there is an unusually penetrat¬ 
ing government investigation and the curtain of mys¬ 
tery is slightly lifted. It reveals a midnight conference 
in the obscure but luxurious apartment of a beautiful 
woman, involving persons whose normal doings are 
sufficient to command head-lines in any newspaper in 
the land. It discloses a hundred-thousand-dollar bribe 
toted about in a suit-case by a millionaire’s son and 
deposited secretly in a pocket where it will make the 
millionaire a multi-millionaire. It brings to light a 
corps of highly paid lobbyists conniving at stealing a 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


5i 


fortune belonging to the people of America. It di¬ 
vulges knavery and thwarted knavery, illicit business 
and illicit love, thrilling mystery. 

A prominent Washington hostess, who would 
promptly toss herself into the Potomac at the slightest 
breath of scandal involving her name, discovers that the 
count she has been making a lion of is a viper un¬ 
awares, and, what is even worse, not even a count. An 
important diplomatic code is missing, and a bogus 
operative of the Secret Service is quietly handcuffed at 
his desk and transported across burning Kansas to 
Leavenworth while his erstwhile and authentic asso¬ 
ciates are despatched to the ends of the earth for the 
vanished document. 

Yes, the most interesting people in Washington are 
the workers in the dark. They are of either sex, and 
they are of all nationalities and social positions. 

On the same day that he had made the arrangement 
to have Alan Holt enter the employ of the Navy De¬ 
partment, Admiral Walsworth arrived at the door of 
his suite at the Plotel Selfridge about six o’clock in 
the evening. He was tired and warm, and the imme¬ 
diate prospect was for a cooling shower and, later, 
dinner alone, for Mary was otherwise engaged. 

The admiral had drawn his key from his pocket 


52 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


when he found, to his surprise, that his door was al¬ 
ready slightly ajar. He stood stock-still for a second. 
He was quite sure he had locked the door that morn¬ 
ing. Then, deciding that some employee of the hotel 
must have entered the room duty-bound, he pushed the 
door farther open and went in. 

There was a slight gasp from within, quickly sup¬ 
pressed, and answered by a suppressed gasp from the 
admiral. A tall, dark, strikingly beautiful woman 
attired in a tight-fitting and singularly becoming henna 
gown, with cloche hat to match, stood in the small 
foyer hall and was regarding him with lustrous black 
eyes wide with apprehension. Admiral Walsworth 
automatically removed his cap and awaited develop¬ 
ments. No ordinary intruder this. She was too attrac¬ 
tive, too distinguished-looking, and the Walsworths 
had always had an eye for a beautiful woman. 

“Oh, I beg pardon,” hesitated the Lady in Henna in 
a deep rich voice. “This then is not the apartment of 
Yvonne Delgarde?” 

A foreigner, he decided—French, probably. 

“Madame is in the wrong room?” suggested the ad¬ 
miral, a far different admiral from the brusk, almost 
surly bureaucrat who had confronted Alan; a polite, 
almost obsequious and somewhat solicitous admiral. 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


53 


"I was to have dinner with my cousin, Yvonne Del- 
garde/’ explained the strange lady in a rush of words 
to her full scarlet lips, and she came closer. “I was 
to meet her in the lobby. I waited—hours. Then I 
telephoned to her room—Room 33 they told me at 
the desk. A voice said, 'Come up, Claire.’ I come. 
I find the door open, so I walk in. But Yvonne is not 
here. Then you come. I do not understand.” 

The admiral smiled. 

"This is Room 23,” he explained patiently. "You 
should have gone up another floor.” 

"Oh—how stupid of me,” she said, apparently over¬ 
come with embarrassment. "Do you then know that 
33 is the room of Yvonne Delgarde?” 

"I have never heard of the lady,” replied Admiral 
Walsworth. "But there are many others I’ve not had 
the honor of meeting.” 

"Yes?” absently agreed the attractive stranger, mov¬ 
ing slowly toward the door. But she was smiling at 
him. "I shall go and seek her.” 

The Navy man was stroking his stubby mustache. 
He was meditating, at the same time, on how well 
henna-colored fabric went with lustrous eyes, especially 
lustrous brown-black eyes. 

"Why don’t you telephone Room 33 from here and 


54 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


see if your cousin is in,” he suggested, pointing to the 
instrument on the stand just inside the living-room of 
his suite. 

“If it is not too much trouble,” she agreed, and 
turned and sank gracefully into the chair by the tele¬ 
phone. She jiggled the instrument and spoke briefly 
into it. 

“She does not answer,” the stranger smiled up at 
the admiral and replaced the telephone-receiver. “Oh, 
dear—it is ver’ annoying.” 

Whereupon the officer participated in her pain over 
such a disappointment. 

“I should esteem it a great pleasure if you would 
have dinner with me,” he finally ventured, with his 
courtliest of bows. 

The lovely lady rose, puckered her white forehead a 
little, and her slim hands went up to her bosom in a 
foreign gesture of surprise. But she smiled. 

“I could not do that, I am afraid,” she replied 
doubtfully. But her hesitation carried the implication 
that she would like to accept his invitation. And this 
gave him courage to renew it. 

She studied him for a full moment, with her medi¬ 
tative and lustrous eyes. Then, with a little laugh, 
she yielded. 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


55 


“It is terribly unconventional. And I do not know 
what my cousin will say when she comes. But you 
have been so nice—I will meet you in the lobby.” 
And she left quickly. 

Twenty minutes later, bathed and in a fresh uniform 
and feeling very well pleased with himself, Admiral 
Walsworth gave his arm to his vivid new acquaintance 
in the lobby of the Selfridge and escorted her out to a 
taxi-cab. If he set a rather rapid pace during their 
transit to the door and glanced once surreptitiously 
around the lobby to see how many people were ob¬ 
serving his colorful companion and himself, it was 
only because he was an admiral and the soul of 
discretion and was very well known at the Selfridge. 
For the same reason he had esteemed it better to dine 
at a larger hostelry where they would not be so con¬ 
spicuous. Not that this lady was not a perfect lady. 
But her high color, her rather bold black eyes, the 
caressing manner in which she smiled at him—one 
must be discreet. 

Over the demitasse in the great, over-ornamented 
dining-room of the New Hilliard, Claire Lacasse said, 
fondling her own perfumed cigarette and rolling the 
smoke upon her lips, “I hav’ always liked Naval men. 
Admiral Walsworth. My husban’ was commander of 


56 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

a French destroyer sunk and killed by a Boche 
sousmarin off Madagascar. It was ver’ sad. We 
were just married. I came to America to forget.” 

The carefully plucked black lashes drooped, but in 
the next moment the late Commander Lacasse, if he 
ever existed, was forgotten and the conversation be¬ 
came more animated than ever. 

Admiral Walsworth always said that it took a strik¬ 
ingly attractive woman to bring his social graces to 
their suavest point. His late wife, Mary’s mother, a 
boyhood sweetheart whom he had married immediately 
upon graduation from Annapolis, had died two years 
after their marriage while he was on duty on an anti¬ 
quated gunboat on a muddy Chinese river, leaving 
their year-old child to be brought up by her unmarried 
sister. Mary’s mother had been a pretty, patient, 
mouse-like creature. During the few months of their 
married life that they had been together, she had wor¬ 
shiped her good-looking, rather dictatorial young hus¬ 
band flushed with his Academy honors, and accepted 
his word as law without question. He had loved her, 
but he had even then loved himself more and it had not 
been difficult, except upon rare occasions, to forget 
her. Mary had inherited her mother’s looks and sweet¬ 
ness, but the positive qualities in her character came 
from him. 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


57 


From the New Hilliard, an hour later, the admiral, 
after a brief and not too vehement protest upon her 
part, piloted his alluring companion to another taxi¬ 
cab, which whisked them out of Washington, across 
the river, and into Virginia. Three miles into the 
country the taxi halted in front of what was apparently 
a rambling old southern mansion overlooking the 
Potomac and set in the midst of rather carelessly kept 
rolling lawns. But the interior belied the sedateness of 
the outside setting. The proper knock at the door, 
a low conversation with the attendant, and his approv¬ 
ing nod were required for entrance. Once inside, the 
din of jazz smote the ear as the Naval man and his 
escort entered the smoke-filled dining-room, where 
some forty or more couples sat around tables laden 
with tinkling cool glasses filled with colored liquids. 
It was a resort much favored by gold-braided gentle¬ 
men and strikingly if somewhat boldly dressed ladies. 

Claire Lacasse danced divinely, Admiral Wals- 
worth discovered. He himself was of the opinion 
that he danced rather better than he really did. Be¬ 
tween dances they sipped the forbidden liquids and 
conversed. Their acquaintance had ripened fast, and 
their talk was much more intimate than it had been 
within the chaste, dignified walls of the New Hilliard. 


5 8 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

She braced her smooth chin upon slender arms and 
hands and, leaning invitingly toward him, encouraged 
him out of narrowed, slightly slanting black eyes to 
talk. The admiral was garrulous, somewhat flushed 
of face, and was having the unofficial time of his 
official life. 

One of the features of the entertainment, provided 
while the orchestra rested, was the hodge-podge of 
music, comedy and bromidic monologue that pro¬ 
ceeded from the loud-speaker pf a huge radio-set 
placed at one end of the room. The patrons of the 
resort, however, seemed to be interested in livelier 
and more personal forms of amusement. Only when 
the attendant at the radio tuned in on a western sta¬ 
tion and a simpering voice enunciating with exagger¬ 
ated clarity started retailing bedtime stories about 
Percy Possum and Sally Skunk did the incongruity of 
the proceeding at such a time and place strike the audi¬ 
ence's sense of the ridiculous, and loud cheers and 
laughter greeted that number. 

Strangely enough, Admiral Walsworth's compan¬ 
ion manifested considerable interest in radio. 

“It is a ver' wonderful thing," she declared, and 
the admiral, for all the avidity with which he had been 
drinking in her every gesture, missed the shrewdly 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


59 


calculating look she shot at him. “And now I read,” 
she went on, “in the journals of the latest radio inven¬ 
tion—the ‘death ray/ I have understood, Admiral, 
that you are expert in the radio. Tell me, is there any¬ 
thing of importance in the ‘death ray’? It would be 
such an awful thing to destroy whole cities and thou¬ 
sands of innocent people.” 

Ordinarily the admiral might have been on his 
guard at such a question. But the questioner, in this 
case, was a pretty woman. And in the roseate glow 
cast by what he had eaten and imbibed, his usually 
close tongue was a bit loosened. 

“I always believed there was something in this 
‘death ray’ business,” he asserted. 

“And your government?” asked the lady with the 
lustrous eyes. 

“You must regard it as confidential, but we are 
working on something of the sort in my Department 
now,” acknowledged the other. 

During the next ten minutes Admiral Walsworth 
made several attempts to turn the conversation to 
channels more personal than wireless and more suit¬ 
able to the intimate occasion. He failed to notice the 
gentle pertinacity with which Madame Lacasse kept 
recurring to that subject. As he was helping her into 


go THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

a summoned taxi an hour later and the cool midnight 
air had cleared his head somewhat, he wondered for 
an instant just how much he had told her and if he 
had really been as indiscreet as all that. But he con¬ 
soled himself with the thought that, like all pretty 
women, she would forget everything of a technical 
nature that he had imparted to her. 

He dropped her in front of her home, a quiet little 
brownstone residence on a quiet little street. Turning 
shy and slightly coquettish, she dissuaded him from 
following her farther. 

“This is such a quiet neighborhood. One must be 
careful of the appearances.” 

“But I shall see you again? I may call very soon?” 
he begged. 

She hesitated. “You are a ver’ nice man to have 
rescued me to-night, Admiral. Yes, I will dine with 
you again. And you may come to see me here, but 
I would prefer a third person present when you come. 
I am alone here, you see. My servant comes only by 
the day. I must be ver’ careful.” 

His face expressed disappointment and surprise at 
her sudden retreat into propriety. 

She noticed it. 

“You have a daughter, did I not hear you say? 
Why do you not bring her?” 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


61 


He did not fancy introducing Mary to this gorgeous 
creature. There would be too much to explain, and 
he had a feeling that Mary would not fancy Claire 
Lacasse. But he said, “Maybe I will,” and then, de¬ 
ciding that under the circumstances it would be unwise 
to go through with the fonder good night he had 
anticipated, left her. 

When the door had closed behind him, Madame 
Lacasse stood quite still in her lighted foyer hall and 
smiled to herself. It was not a nice smile. Her al¬ 
mond-tinted, almost Oriental face bore somehow a 
resemblance to a cobra that is about to strike. She 
had succeeded! He was so gullible! And his daugh¬ 
ter—probably she was just like him, and she might 
prove of even greater value than the father. 

The lady with the almond-tinted face went to the 
telephone and called a number, a private number. 

Admiral Walsworth saw Claire Lacasse many times 
during the next few days, but it was a full week later 
that he induced Mary to accompany him to the French 
woman’s house for tea. 

Madame was charmingly dressed and mannered. 
She made a special effort to be nice to Mary, who, 
knowing her father’s weakness for pictorially striking 
women, understood readily his acquaintance with this 


62 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


newest one, but did not quite apprehend why she, 
Mary, had been invited to spoil their tete-a-tete. She 
did not at the time connect her presence there with 
the turn the conversation took toward radio nor did 
she notice the adroit manner in which madame had 
manipulated their polite talk into that channel. 

Their hostess seemed to have an intimate knowledge 
of Alan Holt’s triangulating machine, a knowledge 
that was not consistent with the secrecy with which 
that device and its developments were supposed to be 
surrounded. Madame was aware, for instance, that 
a large tower and a smaller auxiliary tower had been 
constructed in the Piney Ridge section and the in¬ 
ventor installed there and already put to work. She 
appeared quite cognizant of the importance of the ex¬ 
periments under way. Moreover, Mary’s ordinarily 
close-mouthed father was in no wise loath to impart 
still more knowledge. It made Mary uneasy. 

Claire Lacasse turned to her and smiled in friendly 
fashion. 

“You, of course, know about this terrible ‘death 
ray’ invention, Miss Walsworth? I am so interested. 
My poor husband was expert in the French Navy in 
the wireless. He talked about it all the time. I had 
to learn much about the science in, what you call ? the 
self-defense.” 


THE LADY IN HENNA 


63 


“Yes, I know something about it. But it’s sup¬ 
posed to be a secret, I rather thought/’ replied Mary, 
with a sharp glance at her father, which he completely 
missed or ignored. 

“This Meester Holt, he must be a ver’ remarkable 
young man,” Claire continued. 

“He is,” Mary agreed. 

“For a garage mechanic he is a very brainy chap,” 
chimed in the admiral, and this time he returned 
Mary’s sharp glance. Madame missed nothing. She 
was alert—and amused. So, the daughter liked this 
Holt and the father disapproved. Bien! 

“Some time, if it is permitted,” Madame suggested 
cautiously and in the manner of an innocent girl ask¬ 
ing her father to take her to the circus, “I should like 
to visit the towers and see this awful thing. I should 
be so thrilled.” 

Mary almost gasped. This French woman certainly 
possessed her due amount of nerve. 

Even the Admiral was taken aback, cautiously as 
his hostess’s request had been worded. 

“I am afraid that would be impossible,” he said, al¬ 
most apologetically. “These experiments are being 
conducted in strict secrecy, and I must ask you on your 
word of honor not to tell a soul that I have even men¬ 
tioned them to you. As for visiting the station, there 


64 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

are only about five people in the world permitted to 
do that. It’s under strict guard.” 

“Not even Miss Walsworth is permitted?” asked the 
French woman, and Mary wondered if the look Claire 
flashed at her was not slightly malicious. Had the 
admiral confided to this woman the friendship be¬ 
tween Alan and herself? Her father must be very 
deeply infatuated. 

“Certainly not,” replied Admiral Walsworth, and 
Mary comprehended that this was intended for her as 
well as Claire. 

On their way home in the runabout, the Admiral 
asked, “Well, how do you like her?” 

“Not a great deal,” Mary answered, indifferently. 

“But isn’t she strikingly beautiful?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

At dinner that evening at the Selfridge, Mary said 
seriously to her father. “Dad, I suppose it’s rather im¬ 
pertinent for me to say this, but I wish you’d be more 
careful in what you tell Madame Lacasse about Alan’s 
work. She seemed abnormally keen to find out about 
it. Has it occurred to you to be at all suspicious of 
her?” 

“Nonsense,” snapped the admiral, and bristled so 
fiercely that Mary considered it wise to drop the 
subject. 


CHAPTER V, 


THE MASTER MIND 


O outward appearances there could not be the 



1 slightest aspersion cast upon the legitimacy of 
the manifold and bustling activities carried on by the 
firm of Drakma and Company in their palatial suite of 
offices on the sixth floor of a Washington business 
building rivaling the finest of the government edifices 
in its concrete-and-marble architectural perfection. 
One stepped out of the velvety-running elevator beside 
a desk labeled “Information” and presided over by a 
dignified, white-haired old gentleman who looked as 
if he had once been at least a senator. A muffled buzz 
issued from the four lines of clerks and typists stretch¬ 
ing back toward the executive offices in the rear of the 
suite near the great plate-glass windows. 

If such information was necessary, the dignified old 
gentleman or any of the clerks or typists could have 
told you with considerable pride that Drakma and 
Company owned outright and operated some ten large 


66 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

sugar and tobacco plantations in the West Indies, fi¬ 
nanced many other plantations and kindred enterprises 
on a profit-sharing basis, exported and imported many 
millions of dollars’ worth of commodities annually in 
their own steamers and sailing vessels, had recently 
acquired two extremely prolific oil wells in Mexico 
and another in Baku, and were indeed the capital city s 
largest business concern. If you expressed surprise 
that such a business was located in Washington instead 
of New York, the logical center, the old gentleman or 
the young clerk would either have bristled with local 
pride or ventured the belief that their president, Mark 
Drakma, was rumored to be interested, in some ob¬ 
scure manner, in politics. 

That was everything the old gentleman and the 
clerks and all but very few other living people knew 
about the machinations of Mark Drakma and the maze 
of wires, overhead and underground, that centered in 
his elaborately manicured fingers. 

True, there was the matter of the slim dark lady 
with the black flashing pools of eyes, the always fash¬ 
ionably attired, always in-a-hurry lady who even now 
opened the little swinging gate behind which the dis¬ 
tinguished old sentinel was stationed and swept down 
the aisle of clerks to the office of Mark Drakma, with 


THE MASTER MIND 


67 


her smooth chin in the air and without a look to right 
or left. The old gentleman’s professional smile of 
greeting died on his thin white lips and was reborn as 
a quizzical frown directed at the shapely back of the 
visitor. The orders from Mr. Drakma were to admit 
the lady always without question, and his employer 
was a man who was always obeyed in the same 
manner. 

The lady opened the door upon the spacious, thickly 
carpeted office with the shades of the oversized win¬ 
dows pulled against the sun so that the room was many 
degrees cooler than the blazing Washington June after¬ 
noon outside. A few original paintings in eminently 
good taste ., adorned the wall, and a few pieces of com- 
modiously upholstered furniture tempted the business 
wayfarer to rest a while. But, like all wise executives, 
Mark Drakma had for his personal callers a very hard, 
plain chair beside his desk, a chair that said politely, 
“Business only. And please hurry.” The desk of 
Drakma, in the coolest corner of the room, was low, 
glass-topped, and very broad, and its shiny top surface 
was practically empty. In the next coolest corner was 
what looked like the juvenile offspring of the great 
Drakma desk. This was where Drakma’s homely, close¬ 
lipped secretary did her work. Miss Cooley was a be- 


68 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

ing apart from the other employees of Drakma and 
Company, by request of her employer. 

The heavy-set man with the thick jowls and small 
dark eyes was dressed immaculately in black. Except 
for the red rose in his buttonhole, he resembled a some¬ 
what sinister undertaker whose clientele consists exclu¬ 
sively of millionaires. He was setting down figures on 
an under-sized memorandum pad and scowling 
slightly, but his bull-like head shot up with amazing 
speed for such a sluggish-looking body as the door 
opened and the mysterious lady entered. 

“Ah, Claire/’ he said with genuine pleasure. His 
heavy body even rose solicitously at her approach. 

Claire Lacasse made a careless gesture of greeting 
with her slim fingers and, without waiting for his 
assistance, pulled the smallest of the upholstered chairs 
up to his desk, ignoring the uncomfortable chair that 
was already there. 

Mark Drakma’s manner changed. His eyes nar¬ 
rowed and he said briefly, “Well?” 

“Where have you been, Marko?” asked Madame 
Lacasse, knowing well that that was not what he ex¬ 
pected but deciding to toy with this bear-like man a 
little. “I have been here twice, in the last week, and 
they said you were away/’ 


THE MASTER MIND 


69 


She spoke with a significant look at Drakma and an 
almost imperceptible nod at the secretary pushing the 
keys of her noiseless typewriter in the corner. 

“You may go to lunch now, Miss Cooley,” said 
Drakma. The secretary rose, claimed her hat from 
the small closet near her desk, and disappeared with 
the same automatic, silent efficiency that characterized 
the instrument she had been using. Miss Cooley was 
paid well to disappear and appear only when wanted 
and to see only what she was supposed to see. 

When her thin, flat-chested figure had gone, Mark 
Drakma asked again, “Well?” But now there was a 
softening about his snake-like eyes as he regarded the 
trim, slim figure of Claire Lacasse sprawled gracefully 
in the-armchair. She languidly drew a perfumed 
cigarette from her hand-bag, produced matches in a 
little silver case from the same receptacle, struck fire 
and exhaled a cloud of smoke from rouged lips and 
thin nostrils. 

“Why must we discuss business on such a ver’ hot 
day, Marko?” she teased him. “Why don’t you, for 
instance, invite me aboard your yacht and discuss 
things comfortably there? Or perhaps you have just 
returned from a yachting trip and your—guest is still 
aboard, eh? .That would be ver’ embarrassing, eh?” 


70 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


Her dark eyes glowered a little. She did not love 
Mark Drakma, and she was quite sure he was rather 
desperately in love with her. But he was rich. He 
was the means of supplying her with the things in life 
which her gilded, pampered nature craved. She was 
ready to do battle to the death with fair means or 
foul, against any woman or man who threatened to 
take him and the luxuries he stood for away from her. 
She was not jealous because Drakma had been away 
for ten days without telling her why and where; she 
was curious and cautious. 

But for the moment he chose to ignore this. 

“Come,” he said impatiently, “drop the nonsense. 
Have you met Admiral Walsworth, and what have you 
learned ?” 

She settled her serpentine body more comfortably 
into the chair. 

“Yes, I hav’ met him,” she answered. “That was 
ver’ easy. He is a ver’ egotistical and rather stupid 
old man. And he likes the pretty ladies, like all the 
American sailor men. The older they are, the more 
they seem to like us, eh? At first we went to the New 
Hilliard and afterward to Shadyside Lodge. You 
know: Emile is the chief gargon. Emile is clever. He 
saw that the admiral’s liqueurs were ver’, ver’ strong. 


THE MASTER MIND 


7 i 


He started the radio. It was easy. In half an hour 
the admiral was telling me how the Navy had, as you 
suspected, taken possession of the invention of the 
garage man.” 

“How about the Holt machine?” 

“He is not so terribly fond of the ‘ray of death’ as 
others of the officers of the Board. But he is prob¬ 
ably wrong. As I said, he is stupid; the others maybe 
are not so stupid. Further, he has a daughter. She 
is ver’ pretty in the nice American way—blonde, the 
bobbed hair—you know. I have seen her many times 
with the garage man, Alan Holt. He is such a hand¬ 
some young fellow, and one would expect an inventor 
to be old and bearded and impossible, riest-ce pasf I 
wondered at once if the daughter of Walsworth and 
this Holt were in love. So I insisted that my admiral 
bring his daughter around to my apartment so that I 
might know. And, as usual, Marko, I am right. This 
Marie and Holt are in love, and my admiral, because 
he is ver’ proud of his family and Holt is just a 
mechanician, does not like it. Consequently he can not 
make a fair judgment of the ‘ray of death/ and you 
are right and he is wrong—the ‘ray of death’ is prob¬ 
ably the greatest invention of the age.” 

“Where is Holt now ?” asked Drakma. “My agents 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


72 

have lost track of him, they tell me, during the last 
two weeks.” 

“Do not be impatient, Marko,” she smiled at him 
lazily. “I shall tell you everything. The Navy De¬ 
partment has built two towers for him near Piney 
Ridge, on the Potomac. He is there now building his 
machine. He has one assistant, a sergeant of the Ma¬ 
rines named Powell, and a guard, another man, is to 
be sent down next week.” 

“I shall see that the right man is sent,” observed 
Drakma grimly. 

“Is there a need for that then? I have understood 
that the model which my brother brought from Latham 
was sufficient, that you could build your own machine 
from that.” 

Drakma frowned. “Your brother’s mission was not 
successful. Essential parts of the model were missing 
and even the experts I have hired to supply them have 
failed. We must get possession of the machine itself, 
the one Holt is building now.” 

“Where, then, is my brother ?” 

“Alexis is safe, though no thanks to himself. He 
tried to get Holt’s plans from the hotel-room and the 
young man unfortunately entered just as your brother 
started his search. He is a very strong young man. 


THE MASTER MIND 


73 


He captured your brother and turned him over to the 
police. I had to bail him out at great expense and ship 
him off to one of my vessels. It was very annoying. 
He is not so clever as you.” 

“Thank you.” She made a little half sarcastic, half 
pleased nod of acknowledgment. “And what am I to 
do next, Marko?” 

“Stick by Admiral Walsworth and continue to get 
what information you can out of him.” She made a 
little grimace. “You do not fancy the old boy?” 
Drakma’s tone was almost too eager. Claire was his 
one weakness, and she was quite aware of the hot 
strain of jealousy beneath his calloused exterior. 

“I should prefer that you instruct me to 'stick by' 
Monsieur Holt,” she teased. “I do not like the old 
men. Holt is young and, as I said, handsome.” 

“Well, perhaps you’ll have your chance at him, too. 
We’ll have to start operating upon him very quickly. 
I received a cablegram from abroad this morning.” 
He reached into the depths of an inside pocket of his 
impeccable black coat and produced the paper and 
handed it to Claire. The unreadable typewritten code 
words had been translated in pencil below them. 

Your price death ray satisfactory. Secure at once. 
Delay disastrous. Michelon. 


74 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

The message, she knew, was from the representative 
of a very large foreign military power, the country 
that had been mentioned most frequently as the one 
to oppose the United States in the next war. She 
raised her eyebrows significantly as she read and si¬ 
lently handed back the cablegram to Drakma. 

“As you know, I believe in conducting my affairs 
without violence, if that is possible,” Drakma said. 
“Finesse is my forte rather than force. I am going 
to use force if necessary in getting this machine. But 
first I wish to give this young Holt one more chance 
to submit to us quietly. If that fails, then I am going 
after him and his invention with every resource at my 
command. And you know what that means. I want 
you to help me offer this stubborn fellow his last 
opportunity to save his life.” 

“I do not understand” she protested. 

“You will,” promised Drakma and, leaning confi¬ 
dentially across the desk to her, talked in a lowered 
voice for about five minutes, unfolding a plan that 
caused her alternately to frown and to smile with an 
almost childlike anticipation of great pleasure. 

“It is old, but it will undoubtedly succeed,” was her 
final verdict. “Men are all so much alike.” She 
sighed. Drakma’s cold eyes, his business concluded. 


THE MASTER MIND 


75 


warmed slowly. Their conversation turned into more 
intimate channels. The big man directed pleading, 
ardent glances at the alluring creature before him, the 
completely physical type of Gallic beauty in its most 
enticing perfection. Then he suddenly rose, circled 
the desk and slipped upon the arm of her chair beside 
her. Seizing her swiftly in his long strong arms, he 
kissed her ripe lips with surprising savagery. 

She looked up at him, when he had reluctantly re¬ 
leased her, unperturbed. 

“For a large man you move very fast, Marko,” she 
bantered. “And for a man with such an awfully stiff 
beard you kiss very satisfactorily.” 

He made a gesture of thwarted irritation. But then 
his lips were very close to her and he was pleading in a 
manner that would have shocked his office force into 
insensibility. 

“I am getting so tired of being tied down here, 
Claire. Business—ugh! I am to get half a million 
for the 'death ray’ on delivery. Then we will board 
my yacht and wander over the world again, you and I, 
and take our fortune where we find it, eh? Havana, 
Paris, Vienna. The old days were the best, Claire. 
Here to-day and there to-morrow, and always a stupid 
millionaire or a corrupt ruler to fill our pocketbooks. 
In a month I shall be free. And then you will come?” 


7 6 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“But the bootlegging industry is ver’ poor abroad,” 
she unexpectedly answered. The fact that Drakma 
was, among his multifarious other activities, the larg¬ 
est wholesale bootlegger on the Atlantic Coast was the 
phase of his life that most rankled with Claire. Among 
all the recognized forms of knavery, bootlegging alone, 
in her opinion, should be taboo. 

“Bootlegging has bought you many pearls and 
gowns and diamond bracelets,” he reminded her. 
“But I will give that up, too. I will give everything 
up if you will come adventuring with me again, 
Claire. I am a soldier of fortune, and this desk will be 
the death of me, the desk and not being able to be 
with you always. I have a premonition that it will 
bring misfortune in the end. When I have got my 
money from the death ray, will you come?” 

With one steely arm Drakma was pressing the warm 
body of his companion against him, and his eyes, 
alight with the burning eagerness of the born adven¬ 
turer to be off on the open road, gazed out of the 
window and did not see the panorama of sweltering 
Washington stretching before them, and the calm 
grace of the Washington Monument looming in the 
near-distance. They were envisioning far away tum¬ 
bling seas and gay continental crowds and the life of 



A Paramount Picture. The Story Without A Name. 

ALAN BATTLES WITH THE AVIATOR IN MID-AIR. 





















THE M1ASTER MIND 


77 

dangerous jousting with fate and the law that had 
once been his and hers. 

“Do you remember the all-night game of rouge et 
noir with the Duke of Dalhgravia at Deauville?” he 
mused, his eyes still out of the window, “and how you 
lured him from his frump of a wife who was so 
anxious to save his honor and his fortune? And how 
lucky he was even to save his silken, monogrammed, if 
slightly soiled from perspiration, shirt?” 

Her own eyes were softening and she, too, was look¬ 
ing into the past. 

“And the matter of the poor, millionaire wine¬ 
grower of Bordeaux who spent such a hectic week 
with us in Paris when we offered to show him the 
sights—at a ver’ high price? Poor chap, he really 
thought we were the innocent honeymooning couple 
we pretended to be. Not a bad-looking man either.” 

“He got what was coming to him,” growled 
Drakma. 

“And so shall we, I fear.” 

“Not if we move out of here. You are too pessi¬ 
mistic. This last job, Claire, and we are off again! 
Inventors are notoriously gullible, and you have never 
failed to land any fish you baited your hook for.” 

“We shall see,” promised Claire, with a ghost of a 


7 g THE story without a name 

yawn, as she massaged her cigarette-end against the 
metal side of Drakma’s ash-tray. The movement took 
on a touch of the vindictive, as though it typified, to 
her idle mind, the extinguishing of her next victim. 


CHAPTER VI 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 

I F you wonder why Congress each year so scandal¬ 
ously rushes its business so as to be out of Wash¬ 
ington before summer begins and why presidents re¬ 
gard residence in the White House through the heated 
term as the utmost mark of devotion to duty, you 
should experience just once the stifling heat of a 
Washington mid-summer afternoon. 

But inside the living-room of the temporary home 
of Claire Lacasse in a quiet, shaded street of the capi¬ 
tal city it was comparatively cool. The green chintz 
curtains were drawn against the sun. And as an aid 
to parched throats and bodies, two tall iced glasses 
stood upon the little mahogany table beside which 
she and Mark Drakma were seated. Moreover, the 
scanty, soft-clinging, and obviously informal garment 
which Madame Lacasse was wearing seemed quite 
suited to the weather. Drakma, feasting his eyes 
upon her lithe body, concealed so incompletely by her 

79 


8o THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


costume, sighed inwardly that she was dressed by his 
direction to please another man. Though, to be sure, 
the fellow’s pleasure was to be short-lived. 

“You are sure he got your note?” asked Drakma, 
setting down the emptied glass. 

Claire removed the ivory cigarette holder from her 
mouth languidly to say. “Yes. He telephoned. He 
should be here now.” 

Perhaps he is more wary than we surmised.” 

“Perhaps. He has never seen me, Marko, and 
would not be so eager to come as you, for instance.” 
She smiled banteringly. 

“Nevertheless I think he will come. It has been 
reported to me how chagrined he was to lose the 
model and the exhaustive search he has had made for 
it.” 

They exchanged apprehensive glances as the tele¬ 
phone on a neighboring table tinkled. Claire rose laz¬ 
ily and removed the instrument’s covering, a lady doll 
in flounced and bustled garments. 

Ah, Admiral Walsworth,” she spoke into the in¬ 
strument with honeyed words. “No, I am ver’ sorry. 

I am expecting guests this afternoon. No, not a rival. 
Ladies. Tiring of you? How absurd. I have been 
so busy lately that I have been obliged to cancel all of 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 


81 


my engagements. Now I am, what you call it, 'step¬ 
ping out’ once more. This evening? Yes—I think so. 
Ver’ well. I shall expect you.” 

She replaced the instrument and, circling in back 
of Drakma, sank down upon the chaise longue, 
stretching her long, serpentine body comfortably and 
touching her hand to her lips as she yawned. Drak¬ 
ma turned his chair around and faced her. 

"The old fool,” said Claire contemptuously. "How 
much longer must I keep him dangling?” 

"Just a few days, I hope,” Drakma encouraged. His 
eyes were fixed upon her. 

But as he made a movement to come closer, she put 
up resisting hands. "Please, Marko, not now. You 
would not disarrange me for the grand scene, would 
you?” And he subsided. 

In a few minutes the bell at the front door rang. 

Claire sprang up at once with surprising swiftness, 
and Drakma without a word disappeared through the 
adjoining dining-room and into a second chamber 
beyond, closing the door behind him. The French 
woman donned an elaborate dressing-gown, which lay 
at the foot of the chaise longue, waited a minute or 
two, and then walked out into the foyer hall and to the 
front door. 


82 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


She opened it sufficiently to perceive to her satis¬ 
faction that the caller was Alan Holt. But she did 
not fancy the puzzled, groping look that flickered over 
his sun-tanned face as he caught his first glimpse of 
her. If she had not known it was impossible, it would 
seem as if he were asking himself if he had not seen 
that attractive face somewhere before and was seeking 
to determine when and where. 

“I received a note saying that if I called at this ad¬ 
dress I might secure information about an article that 
was stolen from me,” he explained. 

“Yes,” she answered, bestowing upon him her most 
inviting smile, a smile which Mark Drakma and 
Charles Pinckney Walsworth had given much to have 
cast in their directions. “Won’t you come in?” And 
as he complied, she added, “It is awkward. My ser¬ 
vants have all gone for the afternoon. It is so hot 
that I permitted them to leave for the beaches at noon. 
And I did not expect you quite so soon.” He won¬ 
dered if it were accident that made her stand so very 
close to him. Nevertheless he followed her to her liv¬ 
ing-room and stood beside the chair lately vacated by 
Mark Drakma, while she hovered still very near to 
him and inquired. “What will you have to drink, Mr. 
—er—Holt ?” 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 


83 


“Nothing, thank you,” he replied, continuing to re¬ 
gard her intently. Had he met this colorful lady before 
or hadn’t he? Working steadily and for long hours in 
the exhaustive heat in his tower for the past three 
weeks had told upon Alan, nearly perfect physical 
specimen that he was. There were circles under his 
eyes, and his never heavy jaws were unusually lean 
and the strong bones sharply defined. He had been 
experiencing difficulties with his machine, and he was 
worried, his head packed full of radio technicalities 
until they disturbed even his hours of sleep. He noted 
with some surprise that Claire had laid aside her 
dressing-gown and that her attire beneath this protec¬ 
tion was, to say the least, very flimsy and unconven¬ 
tional. But his mind was on other things. 

It had been his first impulse to ignore the myster¬ 
ious note which Hyde, the Marine guard lately as¬ 
signed to the tower, had brought up to him with the 
word that it had been in the box with the rest of Alan’s 
mail at the Piney Ridge post-office. But the stolen 
model was a sore point with Alan. He had always 
chided himself that had it not been for his stupidity in 
failing to see through the game of Christoff, he 
would never have lost it. He had a sportsman’s deter¬ 
mination to get it back, and to get it back through his 


84 THE STORY WITHOUT A' NAME 


own efforts. So he had not said a word to Don Pow¬ 
ell, except that he was compelled to run up to Wash¬ 
ington on business, and had come to the address given 
in the offer of information. 

Her eyes upon him, Claire Lacasse slipped grace¬ 
fully down upon the chaise longue and waved her arm 
at Drakma's chair, at the same time holding out a con¬ 
tainer packed with cigarettes to him. She shrugged 
her shoulders as he declined and, choosing one for her¬ 
self, inserted it in her ivory holder. 

“If you have any information about the model 
which was stolen from me,” Alan went on impatient¬ 
ly, “I should certainly be grateful to get it. I have 
made a special trip in response to your note and_” 

“And it is a very warm afternoon in which to dis¬ 
cuss business, and you are a very foolish boy not to 
allow me to mix you a highball or something. I rather 
pride myself upon the excellence of my highballs.” 
Her attractively husky voice almost caressed him. 
She edged nearer to him on her chaise longue ,, her 
thinly draped knee almost touching his. 

She allowed one of her narrow sensitive hands to 
rest lightly upon his shoulder and her dusky eyes nar¬ 
rowed. Claire Lacasse was an expert at this sort of 
game, but it occurred to her now that it wasn't work- 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 


85 


ing out. This young man would under normal cir¬ 
cumstances be a difficult victim; with his mind upon 
other matters, which not even her glamourous pres¬ 
ence could dispel, the task was almost impossible. Her 
advances were only irritating him. Moreover, a vague 
uneasiness that he believed he had met her somewhere 
before had seized her. 

“You are very kind/’ said Alan, concealing his irri¬ 
tation behind a perilously thin veneer of politeness. 
“But I am terrifically busy and I have only a short 
time to spare.” 

“Ah, you inventors,” she sighed. “You have no re¬ 
gard for the frivolous things of life. Cannot you in¬ 
vent a reason for remaining here with me to tea— 
d deux —so that we may discuss our business com¬ 
fortably ?” 

“I’m sorry,” he almost snapped. “I can’t.” 

The eyes of Claire Lacasse were beginning to 
smolder a little, the rising anger of a thwarted woman. 

“Very well,” she said. “We shall come to the point 
at once. If you will wait a moment—” 

She rose with some alacrity and went into her bou¬ 
doir and closed the door. When she returned, her hair 
was disheveled, her immodest drapery was torn to 
expose soft white neck, shoulders and bosom, her 


86 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


breath was coming short, and her eyes were wide with 
simulated fright and rage. Surprised, Alan stood up 
and looked at her* She approached him swiftly, flung 
herself upon him, beat upon his chest with her fists. 

“You coward! You brute!” she screamed. “What 
have you done ? You have insulted me, you —” 

Poor Alan strove manfully to rid himself of her 
encircling presence, seized her wrists, pushed, tugged 
at her groping tenacious fingers. The sound of the 
front door opening and shutting violently came to his 
ears. Had some one from the street heard her scream ? 
What a mess! 

Henri! Henri!” shouted Madame Lacasse, and as 
if in answer to her cry for help, Mark Drakma bounded 
heavily into the room. At the same time Alan, with a 
final effort, thrust the ambitious lady from him until 
she fell exhausted upon the chaise longue. Then he 
turned to face the new complication. 

With lifted fists Drakma, acting the role of the en¬ 
raged husband with considerable skill, came hurtling 
upon the younger man. But a few feet from Alan he 
stopped and snarled, “What does this mean, young 
man? You will have to pay for this.” 

But a light had already dawned upon the quick¬ 
acting brain of Alan Holt. These two together again 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 87 

—yes, his first thought upon seeing Claire at the door 
had been correct. 

“What do you want me to do?” Alan asked quietly. 

“Do? You have insulted my wife, compromised 
her, offended my honor! And you ask calmly, ‘What 
do you want me to do?’- I should kill you. I—” 

“But you won’t,” returned Alan, calmly. “I know 
you two. This lady is not your wife. In the fall of 
1917 I was engineering officer on a transport that was 
blown up in the Mediterranean. I was wounded and 
was sent to Cannes from the hospital to recuperate. 
There was a very beautiful lady there calling herself 
Eloise Delgarde. And there was a gentleman always 
with her, a Prince Antoine Duval. The lady lured 
the victims, and the prince gambled with them and 
cleaned them up. I recognized you two as soon as you 
arrived, Prince Antoine—or whatever your right 
name is.” 

The faces of Claire and Mark Drakma fell for a 
moment. Then Drakma shrugged his great shoulders, 
dropped his mask of excitability, and said sneeringly, 
“Perhaps you are right, Holt. It doesn’t matter. 
Meantime, what are you going to do about this ugly 
scene? I have only to call in a policeman, you know. 
Things look very badly for you. Circumstantial evi- 


88 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


dence, the word of a beautiful outraged lady—police¬ 
men ask for no more.” 

Alan had been thinking of that too. He had also 
been considering the distance to the foyer hall. 
Drakma was blocking his escape in that direction, but 
there must be another route to the front door. Drakma 
must have taken that, for Alan had no doubt but that 
the international gambler had been in the house when 
he entered. 

“What do you want me to do?” asked Alan, sparring 
for time. 

“Now you are talking sensibly,” said Drakma, light¬ 
ing a cigarette, but keeping a wary eye upon Alan. 
“Let us sit down and talk it over.” Alan remained 
standing. “The note requesting you to come here 
regarding your stolen model was not altogether inac¬ 
curate. I have information regarding the where¬ 
abouts of your model. I know people who would pay 
handsomely any one able to supply the missing parts 
of that model, which I have reason to believe you 
possess and without which, as you know, it is valueless. 
Now, to come to the point at once, if you would pro¬ 
duce the attachments that are now missing and sketch 
briefly the manner in which they fit into the machine, 

I should perhaps consider overlooking this unfortunate 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 


89 


little incident, and the Navy Department would be 
none the wiser. You should say that the person who 
stole the model turned out to be, after all, clevef 
enough to repair it and make it workable. What do 
you say?” 

“But naturally I have not the missing parts with 
me,” protested Alan. 

“Where are they?” 

“Unfortunately for you, in the safe in the Navy 
Building.” 

“But you could write out a minute description of 
them and how they function right here so that a good 
engineer could reconstruct them?” 

“I could. And what if I don’t?” 

Drakma shrugged. “If you are so foolish as that, 
I shall at once summon a policeman and make very 
scandalous charges against you. And I don’t believe 
your friends or your mother or Admiral Walsworth or 
Miss Walsworth, for instance, will like that 
especially.” 

Alan flushed angrily. The tkne for action, he saw, 
had come. 

But if he thought to overcome Drakma with the 
first mad rush of his onslaught, he was disappointed. 
Drakma was older, but he was strong and in good 


go THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


condition. Alan’s crashing blow into his face shook 
him but it did not fell him. Drakma wrapped his 
strong arms around the young man until his head lost 
its momentary grogginess and then strove with all his 
strength to throw him to the floor. 

As Claire showed signs of joining the battle, 
Drakma, who already had fears as to its outcome, 
shouted to her, “Get out! Dress and take my taxi at 
the door.” And she obeyed at once. 

The combined boxing and wrestling match raged 
fiercely. Gaining temporary advantage, Alan sent 
Drakma crashing against the console table and it fell to 
the floor. But, braced against the wall, the older man 
came back strongly, slugging savagely into Alan’s face 
until blood started flowing from the inventor’s cheek. 
Alan had long since dropped the idea of merely escap¬ 
ing himself. He was convinced now that Drakma 
was at the head of the sinister conspiracy against his 
death-ray machine, and he aimed to capture the man 
and turn him over to the Secret Service. Drakma 
seemed quite aware of this also. 

Locked in each others’ arms in what seemed to be 
grips of death, the battling men went hurtling to the 
floor, rolling and tugging, perspiration oozing from 
every pore. But when it seemed that Alan would at 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 


9i 


last succeed in getting the vise-like grip upon the thick 
throat of Drakma he had been struggling for, the big 
man, with a last display of strength, wrenched himself 
free, scrambled blindly to his feet and stood for a 
second, panting. Alan was up also in an instant, now 
eager to finish the fray. Suddenly, as the inventor 
came swiftly toward him, Drakma seized a chair and 
sent it flying toward his opponent, striking him a 
glancing blow and stopping him. Then the large man 
turned for flight, sending his last words over his torn 
shoulder and through bleeding lips, “We shall meet 
again!” 

Alan stood steadily, mute, bruised, his shoulder limp 
at his side, unable to follow the man he had almost 
conquered. He cautiously tried moving his shoulder 
and, to his joy, discovered that it was not broken or 
even wrenched, merely bruised and temporarily use¬ 
less. Then he slowly pulled himself together. He 
was alone in this mysterious house. Going into the 
bathroom, he washed his bleeding face, smoothed his 
tousled hair, and rearranged his clothing so that it 
would be safe to appear upon the street. In the pocket 
of his trousers he still found the note intact that had 
lured him to Washington. And he smiled, for he 
knew that if the worse had come to the worst, he still 
had this evidence of his innocence to present. 


92 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


Two hours later, when, looking none the worse for 
his experience save a swollen lip and a gash upon one 
cheek, he had dinner with Mary Walsworth in the 
Union Station, where he was to catch a seven-thirty 
train back to his towers, Alan showed Mary the note 
and related his amazing adventure. 

“1 think I know T that woman,” Mary said slowly, 
her pleasure at being with Alan sobered at once. “She 
is Claire Lacasse. My father is friendly with her, 
foolishly friendly.” 

“That, then, is the name she’s using now,” said 
Alan. “Well, it wouldn’t do us any good to tell your 
father the story. It would be like searching a needle in 
a haystack to find Drakma again. And we couldn’t 
prove much, anyway. They would probably believe 
her disreputable charges against me rather than take 
my word. I don’t believe even your father would be¬ 
lieve she was a crook on my say-so. He doesn’t like 
me, and he evidently likes her. Our best plan is to lie 
low and see what happens. As long as you believe I’m 
innocent, Mary.” 

He looked at her eagerly. 

“Of course,” she answered. “I didn’t need the note 
to tell me that, Alan. But you’ll take care of 
yourself?” 


COILS OF THE SERPENT 


93 


He promised. And at the entrance to the train- 
shed she kissed him, half fearfully, and declared, 
“Father often plays golf down at Piney Ridge. I’ll 
persuade him to come down some day next week. 
And I’ll come along. Do you suppose I could get 
away and come over to see you?” 

“Visitors are prohibited in the tower,” he said with 
mock sternness. Then, observing her face fall, he 
added, “But I guess we can fix it up for you. Please 
come by all means. You can’t imagine how I have 
missed you. Sometimes I wish my darned old inven¬ 
tion was at the bottom of the Potomac. 

“Don’t say that. I think it is a wonderful work 
you are doing—for your country and all the world. 
I am very proud of you, and you must go on to a great 
success. But I miss you, too.” 

So they found time for one more kiss before the 
sympathetic attendant at the gate tapped Alan on the 
shoulder and suggested that there was only thirty sec¬ 
onds remaining for him to catch his train. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE FARM-HOUSE NEAR THE LINKS 

A LAN HOLT and his friend, Don Powell, knew 
more about radio science than they did about 
domestic science, and, though they prepared most of 
their own meals on the site of their labors to save time 
and tried their best to relish them, they sometimes 
found relief in varying their prandial schedule by hav¬ 
ing dinner at the Piney Ridge Golf Club, a mile away. 
A guest-card to the club for this purpose had been sup¬ 
plied to Alan by a more thoughtful member of the 
Consulting Board than Admiral Walsworth at the time 
of the inventor’s first occupancy of the experimental 
tower. 

On the evening following his eventful trip to Wash¬ 
ington, Alan and Don sat smoking their pipes in easy 
chairs on the broad veranda of the club, following an 
excellent dinner, before returning to their base to re¬ 
sume their labors. Alan sat with puckered forehead, 
94 


FARM-HOUSE NEAR THE LINKS 95 

his mind still upon the adventure of the day before 
and upon the problems awaiting him in his workshop. 

Don Powell was not so preoccupied. A healthy 
youngster without Alan’s responsibilities or more seri¬ 
ous outlook on life, Don was beginning to find the 
intense and monotonous existence he was leading 
somewhat irksome, though he would not have admit¬ 
ted this to Alan for the world. He watched the white- 
clad men and women playing golf over the broad 
expanse of green turf stretching before him. He 
watched them with interested and envious eyes, for 
Don could play golf himself. 

“What we both need,” he finally ventured to Alan, 
“is some exercise. We’re both getting to look like 
scare-crows, and another month of this and we 11 botn 
crack wide open.” 

“I hope there won’t be another month of it,” re¬ 
turned Alan thoughtfully. Nevertheless he had been 
worrying a little lately about his eyes and his condition 
in general, and so had Mary. So he encouiaged his 
pal, “But maybe you’re right about the exercise. 
What would you suggest?” 

Thereupon Don proved that he had already made a 

plan. 

“I was talking to the golf professional here before 


9 6 THE STORY WITHOUT Aj NAME 

dinner, ’ he said, “and he thought he could fix it up it 
we wanted to play sometime. You know—lend us 
clubs and balls.” 

“Captain Hickey’s guest-card here gives us the priv¬ 
ilege of playing over the links, as far as that goes,” 
Alan replied. 

Don rose. “Come on then,” he urged. “Let’s go to 
it now. We can play nine holes before it gets dark.” 

Alan hesitated. “I have a lot of work to do to¬ 
night,” he protested. “Besides, I’m a rotten golfer.” 

“So am I,” returned Don, not quite truthfully. 

Finally Alan allowed himself to be persuaded. The 
club professional, a grumpy, dour little Scotchman, 
proved surprisingly pliable and lent them each a bag 
of clubs and two balls apiece. Alan, who had played 
some golf with his father in the years before the lat¬ 
ter’s death, was surprised to discover how much of the 
rather intricate “form” required to master the game 
he had retained. On the first tee, his drive was even 
better than Don s, and the younger man was frankly 
delighted. 

“Say, we ought to do a lot of this,” he enthused as 
they trudged toward their balls. 

At the fifth hole, however, Don was the cause of 
disaster. The tee and fairway streaming ahead were 


FARM-HOUSE NEAR THE LINKS 97 


located just to the left of the vegetable garden adjoin¬ 
ing a neat little white farm-house. And Don, driving, 
executed a beautiful slice that took the ball in an eccen¬ 
tric parabola straight into the center of the garden. 
With an exclamation of irritation he started for the 
garden fence, intending to vault over and reclaim his 
ball. 

“You can’t go in there, mister,” called Don’s little 
dirty-faced caddy at once. “That’s Sam Carter s gar¬ 
den. He won’t let the golf players in. He says they 
ruined it last year.” 

“But I’ve got to get that ball,” said Don. “I lost 
one on the second hole, and it’s my last.” 

“You better stay out,” warned the caddy. “He’s a 
mean old guy, and he’s liable to do anything. 

“Come along, Don,” smiled Alan. 111 lend you 
my extra ball.” 

“Nothing doing,” declared Don stubbornly. “I’m 
going to get that one.” And he vaulted over the white 
picket-fence into the section of the garden allotted to 
corn. Almost instantly the back door of the farm¬ 
house opened. But it was not a hard-headed old 
farmer who appeared. It was a blonde, rosy-cheeked 
girl of about eighteen years. She approached Don 
rapidly, anger flushing her face. 


98 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


“See here,” she called. “My father doesn’t allow; 
golfers in this garden.” 

Don, bent over looking for his ball, straightened out. 
Don fancied himself rather adept with the ladies, and 
he was. Moreover, he almost instantly liked this 
pretty country girl. 

“But we’re not golfers. We’re dubs,” he explained, 
smiling. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be over here. Your 
father wouldn’t take my last golf ball away from me, 
would he?” 

Her childlike face remained stern. “Yes, he would. 
You’ve no business here. You’ll ruin our garden.” 

“Oh, no. I’m a country boy myself. I know enough 
not to step on anything important.” To prove which, 
he stepped plumb into a neat row of beets. He colored 
and, attempting to distract her attention, gazed aloft. 
“Hello,” he said, with genuine interest. “You’ve got a 
radio.” 

She, who had seen everything, smiled in spite of 
herself. He looked like such a nice boy, anyway. 
“Yes,” she admitted, “but the darned thing doesn’t 
work. Dad is in there tinkering with it or he’d been 
out after you long ago.” 

Don had by this time lost much of his interest in his 
lost ball and, in fact, in the whole ancient and honor¬ 
able game of golf. 


FARM-HOUSE NEAR THE LINKS 99 

“My friend and I,” he offered with a wave of his 
arm at Alan, who was waiting patiently on the other 
side of the fence, “are radio experts. We could fix 
your set, if you like.” 

“Oh_could you?” she exclaimed eagerly, and then, 

thinking she had been too bold, hesitated. “It hasn t 
been working for a week, and it makes dad so mad. 

There’s no living with him.” 

“Just a minute,” said Don, and, turning, vaulted 
back over the fence and approached Alan. 

“Say, isn’t she a peach?” he enthused in a low voice. 
“I’ve offered to fix their radio. It’s on the blink. 
Let’s drop the golf for this evening, pay off the cad¬ 
dies, and send them back with the clubs. And go in 
and* fix their set. It wouldn’t go bad, making some 
acquaintances in this God-forsaken hole, would it? 

“Except that we have orders not to make friends. 

“Oh, these people are all right—only farmers. Come 
on.” 

So two men vaulted back over the fence instead of 
one. Don introduced himself and his companion, and 
the girl said that she was Ruth Carter and that she 
confidently expected her father to explode, but to come 
on in the house anyway. In the parlor of the Carter 
homestead, Farmer Sam Carter had the front of his 


ioo THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


five-tube radio set open and was alternately twisting 
wires and emitting profanity in a low tense voice. He 
was lean and sun-browned, in contrast to the ample 
and calm proportions of his wife, who sat rocking in 
the chair over by the upright piano and paying no at¬ 
tention to him. 

“This is Mr. Powell and Mr. Holt, father,” Ruth 
introduced the visitors. “They have come to fix the 
radio set.” 

“I didn’t send for no electricians,” Farmer Carter 
sulked, casting suspicious glances at the two young 
men. “I can fix this darned thing myself.” 

Then Ruth explained further that the callers were 
from the two government towers that loomed up some 
half a mile from the Carter farm-house and that they 
knew radio inside and out. So, after some hesitation, 
the rustic allowed Alan and Don to lay hands upon his 
precious set, and in ten minutes they had it working 
perfectly. 

“Well, there’s nothing like real experts a-workin’ 
on these scientific things,” Mrs. Carter commented. 
“I tell Sam he’d better stick to his plowin’ instead of 
mixin’ in with contraptions he don’t know nothin* 
about.” 

“I notice you do a lot of listenin’ in at that,” 
growled Carter. 



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ALAN AND MARY CONFRONT MARK DRAKMA. 






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FARM-HOUSE NEAR THE LINKS ioi 

"I see by the paper there’s a nice Marine Band con¬ 
cert from Washington right about this time/’ offered 
Mrs. Carter. 

“And there’s the crop reports from Noo York,” 
countered Carter. “And that’s what we’ll listen to 
now, whether you folks like it or not.” 

“Mother and dad always quarrel over what they’re 
to hear,” Ruth whispered to Alan and Don. “They’re 
awfully funny. Usually I have to interfere and tune 
in on what I want to hear.” 

Ten minutes later, Alan discovered to his surprise, 
in the midst of the Marine Concert, which Carter, pro¬ 
testing vigorously, had at last allowed to blare through 
the loud-speaker, that he was alone with the farmer 
and his wife. Ruth and Don had disappeared. In an 
interlude when the horn was quiet, he heard their low 
voices from the now rapidly darkening veranda. Alan 
smiled. Don Powell had a reputation in Latham of 
being “a great one for the girls.” 

They listened in on the radio until nearly half past 
nine, and then Mrs. Carter offered some lemonade and 
cake as refreshments, going to the door and calling in 
Don and Ruth to join the others. The latter couple, 
Alan thought, looked rather starry-eyed and already 
very much wrapt up in each other. 


102 THE STORY WITHOUT A' NAME 


On the way home, Don ventured timidly, feigning 
an explanation of his absence with Ruth on the porch, 
“Ruth and I were talking radio. She’s a great fan.” 

“She must be, the way she went out with you in the 
middle of the Marine Band Concert,” commented 
Alan. 

“She’s a peach, isn’t she? I’m sure keen for her,” 
Don said sincerely. “In my spare time I’m going to 
rig up a little microphone over in my tower and send 
her messages.” 

“Love in this day and age has surely improved over 
old times,” Alan teased. “And now, for the love of 
Mike, let’s get up to our bunks and turn in. I’m dead, 
and we’ll have to get up at five to make up for the time 
we’ve lost to-night.” 

But the look on the face of Don Powell attested that 
the time, in his opinion, hadn’t been wasted. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 

A HEN-HAWK, floating high in the summer air, 
tilted and veered as it passed over Piney Ridge. 
It circled slowly downward as it planed over the misty 
emerald slopes of the golf course and out over the 
checker-board farmlands of the wide-flung Virginia 
valley. And as its shadow slid on past orchard and 
meadow an ominous silence fell on all feathered crea¬ 
tures feeding in the late afternoon sunlight. 

Old Sam Carter, stolidly hoeing in his bean-field, 
stopped to mop his brow and glance at the lowering 
sun. As he did so he caught sight of the slow-plan¬ 
ing bird of prey above him. He turned and squinted 
toward the tree-shadowed house, where he saw his 
daughter Ruth taking her dish-towels in from the cur¬ 
rant-bushes. He called to her quietly, and then by 
pantomime indicated that he wanted his gun to shoot 
down this hovering enemy of their hen-run. 

The bright-faced girl must have understood his sig- 
103 


104 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


nals, for a moment later she emerged from the house- 
door with the old muzzle-loader resting in the crook 
of her sun-browned arm. Old Sam’s glance was still 
aloft as, without speaking, he took the gun from the 
girl’s hand. They stood side by side, waiting for the 
planing wings to drift overhead. The girl even placed 
her finger-tips against her ears, in dread of the coming 
explosion. 

But no explosion took place. Instead, a strange 
thing happened. Suddenly, out of the blue where it 
floated, the huge bird fell like a plummet to the 
ground. No trigger had been pulled. No shot had 
been fired. But the hawk lay, a mass of rumpled 
feathers, dead between the bean-rows. 

Old Sam strode to where it lay and turned it over. 
He studied the body, point by point. Then he 
scratched his head. 

“What killed it, dad?” asked the girl, a note of awe 
in her voice. 

Sam Carter looked slowly about. His gaze rested 
on the already weather-bleached government-tower 
where an armed guard paced back and forth along the 
enclosure-fence. Then it passed on to the golf course, 
where the bright white figures moved over the green 
billows of turf. It came to a rest where the wind- 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 105 

shield of an automobile, winding along the valley- 
road, flashed the afternoon sun back in his face. 

“If it weren’t a critter of the wild I’d call it heart- 
failure,” said the man, still holding the feathered car¬ 
cass. “For nothin’ hit that bird, honey, unless it was 
the final thought of its onery ways!” 

But up in the tower workshop just beyond the crest 
of the hill no such uncertainty marked the two brown¬ 
faced young men bent over their instruments. Don 
Powell dropped the binoculars through which he had 
been watching the scene above the bean-field. 

“By God, Alan, you got him!” he cried, with an odd 
tremor of triumph in his voice. 

Alan Holt turned a switch and jerked a plug from 
the small dial-board in front of him. He laughed, al¬ 
most foolishly, as he wiped his face with a shirt-sleeve 
sadly stained with oil and acid. It was a lean face, an 
intent face, already marked by lines of thought, a face, 
for all its youth, that now might have been called hard 
and would always seem somber, except for a dreamy 
softness about the meditative brown eyes. 

“That may have been an accident,” he said, as he 
took up the binoculars. “And we can’t crow until 
we’re sure.” 

He stepped back to his instrument. “What’s in that 
car stopping by the side-entrance to the club house? 


io6 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


Don’s glass at first poised upon the gay group scat¬ 
tered about the club portico. He noticed among them 
two familiar faces and smiled as he glanced back at 
Alan. 

“I see Admiral Walsworth and his daughter 
They’ve just got out of their roadster, and Miss Wals¬ 
worth is looking up this way,” he reported signifi¬ 
cantly. 

In spite of himself Alan flushed a little. He had 
not seen Mary or, in fact, hardly another human being 
except Don to talk to in two weeks, and he hoped with 
all his heart that she would run up to visit him before 
she left the region of Piney Ridge. Already his mind 
was being diverted from the important business at 
hand to devising means of disposing of Don, so that 
he might be alone with Mary without the sharp-witted 
young Marine sergeant suspecting he had been dis¬ 
posed of. That would be difficult. 

But in the next breath Don announced other com¬ 
plications. 

“There’s a black-haired pippin in white with them, 
too. Looks very Ritzy and Frenchy—at least a coun¬ 
tess. Old Walsworth seems very friendly with her, 
but Mary is walking on ahead.” 

“Let’s have the glasses,” snapped Alan. 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 


107 


He focused them and peered anxiously at the Wals- 
worth group. Mary was still looking up toward him 
even as she mounted the steps to the club house porch, 
and the admiral and Claire Lacasse were in earnest 
conversation together. 

“She’s got her nerve with her all right,” remarked 
Alan, savagely, hardly knowing that he had spoken 
aloud. 

“Who—Mary Walsworth?” ejaculated Don in con¬ 
siderable surprise. 

“No, the fraud with them—the ‘pippin in white.’ 
I’ll put that ‘vamp’ where she belongs some day, see 
if I don’t.” 

“Why—do you know her?” asked Don, all curios¬ 
ity. But Alan would vouchsafe nothing further. With 
an effort he had turned his mind away from Mary 
and her father and their dangerous companion and 
centered it upon the critical experiment they were con¬ 
ducting. Automatically he handed the glasses back 
to Don, whose eyes were better than Alan’s and who 
was the official target-finder for the tower. 

“I didn’t mean the admiral’s car,” Alan explained. 
“There’s a truck or some other big machine back of 
them.” 

Don twisted the regulators of the glasses and looked 


again. 


io8 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


“It's a delivery-truck and the driver’s carrying a can 
of ice-cream into the club. I can see a second can 
still standing on his truck.” 

“Then if I’ve got this Triangulator right,” retorted 
the older man, “it ought to do more than kill a bird. 
Adjust your instrument and let’s see what we can do 
to that three gallons of ice-cream.” 

There was the click of turned switches, the play of 
a pointed dial-needle as the theodolite-deflector com¬ 
puted and triangulated its distances, a muttered word 
or two as the power was turned into' the insulated coils 
at their feet. Then for ten seconds, for twenty, not 
a word was spoken. But a short gasp suddenly burst 
from the man watching through the binoculars. For, 
half a mile away, the metal top of an ice-cream can 
standing on a delivery-truck flew up in the air and fell 
back between the car-wheels. It was followed by a 
boiling geyser of creamy liquid, bubbling and frothing 
out of its container and striking the returning truck- 
driver stock-still in his tracks. 

“You’ve done it!” cried Don. “You’re targetting 
on him as clean as a rifle could. And that shows what 
you could do to a dirigible envelope. And what you 
could do to an enemy pilot in mid-air! You’ve made 
the grade!” 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 


109 

The intent look was still on the older youth’s face 
as he bent over his burnished apparatus. 

“Eve never mentioned it, but for the last five days 
I’ve been giving a baby-dose of these rays to a fat old 
boy down on that golf course. I’ve been getting him 
just as he puts for the seventh hole. The first day I 
saw him stop short and look all around. Then he un¬ 
buttoned his collar and sat down on the green, fan¬ 
ning himself. But I couldn’t be sure. So the next day 
I gave it to him just a little stronger. I could see him 
drop his stick and stagger to one side, like a man with 
vertigo. He’d a flask on his hip, and he had to take 
a good long drink before he got the courage to go on. 
But he sniffed all around that green, as though he 
thought he’d been poisoned with sewer-gas. 

“On the third day he brought somebody with him, 
apparently his doctor. They nosed around, and argued, 
and examined the turf with a microscope. When I 
got the right focus on the old boy this time he simply 
blew up, fanning the air like a bear fighting bees. I 
could see the doctor lug him off to one side and take 
his pulse and give him what must have been a heart- 
pill or two. And this time that big red-faced hulk of 
a man took two drinks from his pocket-flask, although 
I’d only given him a fraction of one per cent, of my 


no THE STORY WITHOUT A' NAME 


wave-power. With five per cent. I could have stopped 
his heart-action inside of three seconds. And with 
my full power I could have struck him cold, fifteen 
miles away!” 

“Good God!” gasped the younger man, with more 
awe than irreverance. “That means you can blast an 
army before you even see it! It means you can stop 
a submarine eighty fathoms under the sea! It means 
you can halt battleships by knocking over their com¬ 
manders, you can route an army without firing a shot, 
it’s going to travel as fast as light, and it’s going to hit 
the enemy like the blight of God! It makes me dizzy 
when I think what it’ll do. But I’m sane enough to 
know this is some day for the little old U. S. A.!” 

“Not until we’ve finished our work,” amended the 
man beside the dial-board. 

“But even now it means a dead-line about our 
coast,” cried Don. “It means a big gun can’t be fired 
within range of your Triangulator.” 

“And that range,” proclaimed Alan, “will be tripled 
when I get this automatic finder working right. I’ll 
contract my base-line and make my two instruments 
a unit, instead of straddling over a quarter of a mile 
with your auxiliary apparatus in the other tower, just 
to be safe on my triangulation-work.” 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 


hi 


“But I still don’t see it, even though I do call myself 
a bit of a radio-fan,” protested Don. “It’s easy enough 
to say that enfilading waves meet and clash and create 
a catabolic eddy, or, as you put it the other day, that 
your converging Hertzian waves are like the share 
and landslide of a plow, throwing an aerial furrow, 
and that within this etheric rupture nothing can—” 

“Who’s at that door?” cried Alan, suddenly ar¬ 
rested in his movements. In three seconds the 
younger man had crossed to the door and thrown it 
open. Standing there the two operators saw Hyde, 
the Marine guard appointed to patrol their carefully 
enclosed proving-grounds. Hyde stiffened and sa¬ 
luted. But the ensuing moment of silence was an 
awkward one. 

“What right have you up here ?” challenged Alan as 
he crossed, slow step by step, toward the interloper. 

“I heard some one call, sir,” said the sullen-eyed 
guard. “And I thought there might be trouble afoot.” 

“There will be,” was the prompt retort, “if you 
don’t obey Department orders. This tower is 
private.” 

The armed figure saluted and withdrew. 

“I’ve a queer feeling about that bird,” Alan medi¬ 
tated aloud. “It’s a sort of hunch that’s been hang¬ 
ing over me for a week now.” 


112 THE STORY WITHOUT Ai NAME 


“Oh, Hyde’s all right,” protested the younger man. 
“I guess I hollered loud enough, when you brought 
that hawk down, to make any leather-neck sit up.” 

But the frown of worry remained on Alan Holt’s 
face. 

“Things are crowding up to a climax here. And 
we’ve got to watch our step. First this fellow Christoff 
steals my model, though luckily I had yanked out the 
enfilading key and disarranged the works so that the 
thing is of about as much value to him as a gun with¬ 
out a cartridge. Then he sneaks into my hotel room 
at Washington and tries to get my blue-prints, prob¬ 
ably so that he can make repairs in the model. And 
I understand, after I nabbed him and turned him over 
to the police, somebody paid the high bail they put 
on him and he disappeared. 

“Then there’s something that happened on my last 
trip to Washington that convinces me that Christoff 
isn’t working alone in this and gives me a pretty good 
line as to who his principal is. And I don’t mind say¬ 
ing that your ‘pippin in white’ is mixed up in the 
thing, too, and that we are not the only ones who had 
better watch their step. I allude to our genial superior, 
Admiral Walsworth. 

“Our work isn’t finished, Don, even when this ap- 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 113 

paratus Is packed and locked in its case and safe in 
the keeping of the Navy Department. Because then 
I’m going to take time to go out and get these people 
who have been trying to lay hands on my machine. 
And, believe me, when I get them there’ll be something 
for your friend Waldron and every newspaper corre¬ 
spondent in Washington to write to his paper about.” 

“Then let’s get the thing back to Washington before 
I die of heart-strain,” suggested Don, as he stepped to 
the tower-rail and once more took up the binoculars. 
“There’s a closed car coming up past Smithers Mill,” 
he said as he swept the landscape, “and it’s coming fifty 
miles an hour. And there’s Admiral Walsworth 
legging it over here from the club house. I don’t sup¬ 
pose it would improve your chances any to give that 
high-and-mighty bureaucrat a bump or two with a 
Triangulator wave?” 

“Nothing I can do seems to improve my chances 
there,” Alan retorted with unexpected bitterness. 

“But why should you worry about that old rooster ?” 
was Don’s prompt demand. “From now on you’ve 
got the whole Department behind you. And once you 
get your official try-out they’ll be pinning medals on 
your tummy as thick as tarpon scales.” He cut his 
laugh short to swing his binoculars high in the air. 


114 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


“And there’s Mary waving to you. Mary’s different. 
She’s steel-true, through and through, and I guess 
she’s pinning more than her faith on you.” 

The sternness went out of Alan’s face. But he 
stood, for a moment, deep in thought. 

“Don, I want you to cut over to your tower and 
bring in the auxiliary instrument,” he finally said, 
deciding to drop stratagem in favor of frankness. 
“And don’t get back here inside of twenty minutes. 
And if there’s any way of holding up the admiral, 
during those same twenty minutes, so much the 
better.” 

Don’s smile, as he pulled on his coat, was a broad 
one. 

“I can remind him that Claire Lacasse is over on 
the club house porch,” suggested Don. “He seems to 
think the Madame Lacasse is the last word in dusky 
loveliness.” 

“Then you know the name of 'the pippin in white’ ?” 
Alan asked sharply. 

“Yes, I know her,” Don returned soberly. “I 
thought I recognized her the first time I spotted her 
with the admiral through the binoculars. Then I took 
another good look, and I decided that to-day isn’t the 
first time I’ve seen that dame. In the first months of 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 


Ii5 

the war I was orderly for Colonel Bridger of the 
Marines. He commanded one of the first regiments 
of Marines sent across. And this lady was a great 
friend of his. Used to pick him up in her car almost 
every evening. He was quite stuck on her. And just 
before we sailed, the colonel’s orders were mysteriously 
missing. He never thought I was wise, but there was 
a terrible hullabaloo. They were never found. An¬ 
other copy was sent to him, and we sailed anyway. 
Three hundred miles off St. Nazaire we were attacked 
by a German submarine. They didn’t get us; but 
I’ve always suspected this Lacasse lady was responsible 
for the missing orders and the attack by the ‘sub’ as 
well. She’s a bad egg.” 

“You said it,” agreed Alan. 

But Don was already half-way down the stairs. He 
was whistling light-heartedly as he passed the watchful 
Hyde at the base of the tower. He called gaily to 
Mary Walsworth as he caught sight of her coming up 
the hillpath, noting with a sigh of relief that her father 
had stopped behind to speak with a red-jacketed figure 
on the fringe of the golf grounds. Half-way to his 
auxiliary tower Don consulted his watch and broke 
into a run, remembering that he had a little talking of 
his own to do. 


ii6 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


Three minutes later, indeed, he was bent over a two- 
hundred-watt sender which he had quietly put together 
for his own private ends. For during his month of 
work in that lonely neighborhood Don had continued 
to meet and talk radio to Ruth Carter. They had even 
heliographed back and forth, Don with an old refract- 
ing-mirror and Ruth with a new milk-pan. Then the 
sustained opposition of Samuel Carter had prompted 
Don to work out a diminutive receiving-set, in the 
form of a sewing-basket with a false bottom. And 
Ruth Carter had become deeply attached to her new 
sewing-basket. While she sat, demurely darning her 
father’s socks or as innocently patching his denim 
overalls, Don Powell could send down to her his low- 
powered but ardent little love-messages. These anony¬ 
mous love-messages, it is true, puzzled many a neigh¬ 
boring radio-fan, but to the demure-eyed girl so 
engrossed in her sewing they brought ecstatic little 
thrills of delight. Old Sam, indeed, coming in one 
day to refill his water-jug, was. arrested by Ruth’s 
sudden laughter and convulsive movements of joy as 
she shifted the secret turning-dial and a familiar voice 
said: “I love you, love you, love you, moon of my 
delight!” 

Old Sam shook his head thoughtfully, half-per¬ 
suaded his girl was a bit weak in the upper-story. 


THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE 117 

“RutK ain’t like the rest of us Carters,” he said, with 
the utmost conviction. 

So Don, watching 1 his minute-hand approach the ap¬ 
pointed moment, leaned closer to his diminutive trans¬ 
mitter and said: “I love you, Sun-Beam, more than 
lips can say.” Then he sighed as he added: “l love 
you, Cutey, but I can’t tell it this way again. For my 
chief has finished up his work. And before to-morrow 
we’ll be gone!” 

Just to the right of the second tee at the Piney 
Ridge Golf Club, the fairway merges abruptly into a 
deep tangle of scrub pines and matted bushes, a region 
marked “out of bounds” and an almost hopeless spot 
for a dub golfer who has sliced his drive to seek his 
ball. 

In the midst of these bushes, as Don’s low-powered 
love message zipped through the ether, a cripple carry¬ 
ing a crutch with a metal button cunningly set in the 
camouflaged frame beneath his armpit stood atten¬ 
tively. He pressed a watch-case radio receiver close 
to his ear. Suddenly his face became more alert than 
ever and distorted in the effort to catch every word 
that was coming into the watch-case. Then he grinned 
with malicious satisfaction, looked up carelessly at 
what promised to be a perfect sunset, and whistled a 
perfect imitation of a bob-white calling for its mate. 


iiB the story without a name 

The cripple was Alexis Christoff, who had now dis¬ 
carded his usually immaculate attire for the ragged, 
sun-faded clothes of a vagrant and whose legs were as 
healthy as those of an Olympian athlete. 


CHAPTER IX 


TAPPED WIRELESS 

C LAIRE LACASSE had explained to her com¬ 
panion, Admiral Walsworth, that she would like 
to try a few holes of golf to end her ennui . Her mind, 
however, was not on her play as she awaited the offi¬ 
cer’s return from his trip of inspection to the tower. 
He had proved unexpectedly firm in refusing to take 
her along, and the lady with the lustrous eyes did not 
like that firmness. Madame Lacasse had really had no 
wish to accompany the admiral, since she did not rel¬ 
ish the prospect of again confronting Alan Holt, and, 
indeed, would never have risked a journey to Piney 
Ridge had she not received orders from Drakma to do 
so. 

Drakma, true general that he was, seldom hesitated 
to send others on errands of danger. The adventurer 
was, moreover, anxious to see his coup under way, 
since he believed Holt and his assistant were not to 
remain much longer at Piney Ridge. So when Ad- 


120 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

miral Walsworth, still as enamored as ever of the 
dusky Claire, had invited her to motor along with 
Mary and him to the golf club, she had at first de¬ 
clined, but later, having meantime consulted Drakma, 
concurred. She had come armed with minute instruc¬ 
tions from that worthy, who knew the ground thor¬ 
oughly, from reports of his scouts. 

Madame Lacasse assured the admiral that she did 
not mind playing alone. 

“If you were able to play with me, the pleasure 
would be much greater, of course,” she flattered him 
with her silken smile. “Alas, you are always so busy.” 

The admiral was pleased. It helped him to dissem¬ 
ble to himself the fact that he had lately been some¬ 
what neglecting his official duties to play courtier to 
her. 

“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll get you some clubs 
from the professional. I won’t be long. I’ll catch up 
with you at about the third hole.” 

Madame Lacasse intended grimly that he should not 
catch up to her a second before that. 

Having attained the second tee, the foreign woman 
had manufactured her little pyramid of moist sand, had 
placed the white ball upon its apex, and, rising, was 
pausing and gaining time by rubbing her sand-soiled 


TAPPED WIRELESS 


121 

fingers against a lacy handkerchief when the whistle 
of the bob-white came shrilly from the bushes on her 
right. Without flickering an eyelash, Claire, with a 
poise and preliminary aiming at the ball that betokened 
an experienced golfer, hooked her drive neatly into 
the “rough” some hundred and seventy-five yards 
down the fair-way to the left. When the caddy was 
well under way toward the vanished ball, she called, 
“Find that one, caddy, and I’ll drive another, mean¬ 
time.” 

Quickly she teed up another ball and, without any 
preliminary motions, sliced it into the bushes to the 
right whence the simulated bird-call had come. 

“Dub!” she cried, as if exasperated. And to the 
caddy, “Go ahead. I’ll look for this one.” 

And so this plan of campaign brought her quickly 
to the side of her brother, Alexis Christoff, with the 
nearest other human being, the caddy, nearly two 
hundred yards away. 

She embraced her brother with a real emotion usu¬ 
ally foreign to her cold-blooded make-up. 

“You are safe then, my Alex,” she said in a low 
voice. “I have worried so about you.” 

“I was too slick for them,” he growled. “Though 
that man Holt almost did for me. But I’ve an im- 


122 


THE STORY WITHOUT A! NAME 

portant message for the chief, which you must tele¬ 
phone him immediately. The young fool Powell has 
let the cat out of the bag. They are leaving the tower 
to-morrow, and we must act at once. You 11 a et that 
information to Drakma?” 

“Yes,” replied Claire. “But you are safe, my Alex? 
You are not being followed here? 

“No, I have given them the slip. But go. Your 
caddy is calling to you that he has found your ball, and 
he is coming this way.” 

She pressed her brother’s hand in farewell and 
emerged quickly from the bushes, calling, “Never mind 
searching for this ball, caddy. I’ll play the one you’ve 
found.” 

That her business had been transacted without a 
moment’s delay she discovered from the presence of 
the white-clad gentleman with black and gold epau¬ 
lettes upon his shoulders who was bearing down upon 
her some three hundred yards away. She stood 
coolly and waited for him. 

“Sergeant Powell tells me that Holt has gone into 
the village after some batteries,” Admiral Walsworth 
puffed, quite exhausted by his trip across the links. 
“So there’s no use going up there again yet awhile. 
I’ll play around with you if you like. Just wait her§ 
until I get my clubs.” 


TAPPED WIRELESS 


123 


“I will go to the club house with you, if you don’t 
mind,” smiled Claire, motioning to her caddy. “I 
have just remembered that I should have made an im¬ 
portant telephone call before leaving Washington.” 

There s a booth in the hall of the club house,” of¬ 
fered the admiral. 

So, behind thick oaken-and-glass doors, Claire re¬ 
layed Alexis Christoffs information to Mark Drakma, 
speaking as she did in her native tongue. 

“Good,” came the low thick voice of the master-ad¬ 
venturer, in the same tongue. “We will act at once. 
Everything is in readiness. I have only to give the 
word. You will leave Piney Ridge as quickly as pos¬ 
sible, with Admiral Walsworth. Use every pretext 
to get him away. I do not wish young Holt to see 
you involved in what will happen in any way. Alexis 
will come to me.” 

“You will see that he is not captured, Marko?” 

“He has been a blunderer. But he has done me a 
good service this afternoon. I will look after him. 
Now listen sharply. Here is my plan for your ad¬ 
miral.” And, lowering his voice still more, he spoke 
to her rapidly in still another tongue, a tongue that 
was not French, but a remote Russian dialect no eaves¬ 
dropping ears could possibly understand. 


124 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

At the end she fairly gasped and protested, “But is 
not that very dangerous, Marko? He is a ver’ high 
official, you know.” 

“I don’t give a rap about that. We must get a o 
our eggs this afternoon—in one basket! ’ 

Madame Lacasse, leaving the warm telephone 
booth, had a look of simulated annoyance upon hei 
face as she approached Admiral Walsworth sitting on 
the veranda with his golf clubs by his side. As he 
rose to welcome her, she said regretfully, I am so 
sorry, my Admiral, but the result of my telephone-call 
is that I shall have to return to Washington at once. 
But do not let me interfere with your game or your 
inspection of the tower. I can take the tram. 

“Not at all,” he said gallantly. “We shall go back 
at once, in my car—as soon at least as I locate that 
daughter of mine, who is unaccountably missing. I 
can come down here next week and talk with Holt. I 
dare say he has made no progress, anyway. I have 
very little faith in him, you know.” 

“Others in your Department seem to have more 
faith,” she said, calculatingly. 

“They are optimistic asses,” he retorted. ‘ How 
they can expect a garage mechanic to produce any¬ 
thing that will set the world on fire—” The admiral 


TAPPED WIRELESS 


125 

bristled. Then he apologized, “If you will wait a mo¬ 
ment while I go and find Mary.” 

“I saw her walking in the direction of the tower a 
little while ago,” offered Claire, truthfully. She 
would have relished being present at the scene when 
the admiral interrupted his daughter and the “garage 
mechanic” in what might possibly be a very intimate 
scene, for Claire was quite sure Mary had slipped 
away to call upon Alan Holt. As the admiral disap¬ 
peared, she smiled, and her smile resembled very 
closely the smile of Mark Drakma, who was at that 
very moment saying to his secretary, the efficient and 
close-mouthed Miss Cooley, “I am going away for an 
indefinite time. Admit nobody to this office. When 
I telephone or wire, it will be in the ‘B’ Code, and 
kindly reply in the same way.” 

And also at about the same time, a mile beyond 
Smither’s Mill where the tiny stream, which runs 
across the Piney Ridge Golf Links and which spells 
ruin for so many duffers, widens into a quite respec¬ 
table creek containing trout and perch and other 
species of small fish in abundance, a tall, shabbily clad, 
lone fisherman was acting in an equally enigmatic 
manner. As he sat on the bank, apparently angling 
for a bite while he placidly moved his pole up and 


126 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

down, his mind was not so indolent as his body might 
imply. For his thoughts were not altogether on the 
finny tribe as he so abstractedly worked at his reel. 
Instead of angling for trout, in fact, he was angling 
for a wave-length which, as it sped through the ether, 
was eluding his oddly fashioned aerial. But along 
that aerial he was suddenly conscious of the ghostly 
electric nibble. He leaned lazily back on one hand, 
pressing closer to his ear as he did so, the head-set 
concealed under his tilted hat-brim. . . Can t tell it 
this way again. For my chief has finished up his 
work. And before to-morrow we’ll be gone!” 

The lone fisherman quietly drew in his line, dis¬ 
connected his rod, and stowed it away in his case. 
Then, looking carefully about, he skirted an orchard, 
crossed a hill, cut through a stretch of underbrush, 
and spoke into a field-transmitter hidden in the 
midst of a denser clump of alders. Having done so, 
he dragged in an armful of trailing wire, buried the 
coil and the transmitter under a layer of loose soil, 
and peered carefully about to make sure his move¬ 
ments had remained unobserved. And as he stared 
toward the distant tower, vaguely discernible beyond 
the rising valley-slope, he muttered with a sinister 
smile: “Before to-morrow you’ll be gone, all right!” 


CHAPTER X 


THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 

LAN HOLT had watched with considerable 



l \ amusement and relish the scene that occurred 
when Don Powell, as if by accident, met the roadster 
containing Admiral Walsworth where it was being 
stopped by Hyde, the sentry, down at the field-gate 
leading to the towers. Alan saw Don look up toward 
the main tower and then shake his head at the pompous 
admiral’s inquiry, and Alan surmised that Don was 
telling the officer that the inventor was not at present 
in his shop and that it was useless for the roadster to 
proceed. Alan almost laughed outright at the colossal 
nerve of his young assistant and at the surprised look 
which the sultry Hyde shot at Don from behind his 
rigid “present arms.” But a top-sergeant of Marines, 
like Powell, is an absolute monarch over his under¬ 
lings, and Private Hyde dared offer no denial, though 
he doubtless knew perfectly well that Don was lying. 


127 


128 THE STORY WITHOUT AJ NAME 


Alan sighed with relief as the admiral, who was not 
the best of drivers, turned his car around, and almost 
over, in the narrow country road and proceeded back 
toward the club. Holt had an idea that Mary was still 
on her way up to see him, and he did not wish the un¬ 
welcome presence of her father to spoil their meeting. 
And, further, he did not wish to take up with Wals- 
worth the question of transferring his completed and 
tested “death ray” device to Washington because of 
the continued hostility of that official to the whole 
project. He preferred to explain the matter to more 
sympathetic ears. So he took down the transmitter of 
the telephone that connected him by private wire with 
the office of the assistant secretary of the Navy, under 
whose final supervision the experimental towers had 
been constructed and who was the superior even of 
Admiral Walsworth. 

“Yes, this is the office of the assistant secretary,” 
came a harsh voice over the wire. “But he is out of 
the city and won’t be back for ten days. This is Chief 
Clerk Byrne. What can I do for you ?” 

Alan explained that his experiments were now com-* 
plete and that he was very anxious to get his instru¬ 
ment and reports into the hands of the Navy Depart¬ 
ment as quickly as possible. 


THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 129 


“Oh, I guess there’s no particular hurry about that,’* 
said Byrne. “You can wait until the assistant secretary 
gets back.” 

“But I can’t,” retorted Alan. “I have every reason 
to believe there are certain parties waiting to steal my 
triangulator, by hook or by crook, and that they intend 
making a decisive move very quickly.” 

“Nonsense,” laughed the chief clerk. “You’ve gone 
balmy down there in that wilderness. However, if 
you will feel any safer for getting your junk off your 
hands. Holt, why just hop on a train and bring it up 
here. Or if it’s too heavy to carry, wait until the 
morning and I’ll send down a truck.” 

“Couldn’t you send down a small boat with a work¬ 
ing party,” urged Alan, “and load the stuff down at 
Beecher’s Wharf to-night ? It’s only a mile from here, 
and I’d feel much less uneasy if I had an armed squad 
of sailors helping me.” 

“What’s got into you, man?” derided Byrne. “No¬ 
body’s going to hurt you or your precious invention! 
Hyde is all the guard you need. Bring him along if 
you like.” 

“I don’t trust him.” 

“Steady there! You can’t go off half-cocked accus¬ 
ing enlisted men, you know. As for sending a boat 


i 3 o THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

down there, that would be absurd. Which one do you 
want ? The battle-ship New Mexico is available or—” 

“If you can’t talk sense, Mr. Chief Clerk, whoever 
you are,” blazed Alan, whose usually calm face was 
livid with rage, “why, shut your trap! I’m no fool. 
I know exactly how important this invention of mine 
is, even if you and the rest of your Department don’t. 
And I know the danger the invention is in, right now. 
If you think I’m afraid personally, you’re mistaken. 
But you can tell your chief when he gets back that I 
decline absolutely to be responsible for delivering this 
thing safely to Washington. I’ll start out with it in 
the morning, but whether I get there alive, with or 
without my triangulator, is something else again, and 
something for which you with your high and mighty 
ways are accountable for.” 

And he jammed the transmitter savagely into place. 

Alan still stood tight-lipped and narrow-eyed amid 
his litter of tubes and cells and coils when he heard a 
girlish voice call out from below. 

“May I come up?” this girlish voice inquired. 

His face remained hard, though a quick tingle sped 
through his tired body. For even before he leaned 
over the tower-rail he knew that voice to be Mary 
Walsworth’s. And his heart was bitter, at the mo¬ 
ment, against the name of Walsworth. 


THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 131 

“Of course,” he said, his effort at self-control mak¬ 
ing 1 his voice tremulous. Yet as he opened the door 
and saw the slender figure and the peach-blow face 
with the ardent eyes his own eyes lost a little of their 
somberness. 

“I’d rather father didn’t know,” she said, a little out 
of breath as she glanced about at the inscrutable instru¬ 
ments of which she had always stood so vaguely yet 
so stubbornly jealous. 

“I’m sorry he’s ashamed of me,” was Alan’s retort. 
And his tone brought her quick eyes up to his face. 

“Oh, Alan, it’s not that,” cried the distressed girl. 
“He doesn’t know you as I do. But he’s a Walsworth. 
And he can’t seem to forget that you once worked in a 
garage.” 

“Well, I’ll work on the consulting Board before I’m 
through,” said Alan, with his curt laugh. “And that 
may wash some of the garage grease off my record! 

“But I’m so proud of what you’ve accomplished,” 
Mary reminded him. “Did you see the article about 
you in The American Scientistf I sent a clipping to 
your mother. By the way, I rode over to see her day 
before yesterday, and she’s awfully anxious that you 
should come home and spend a few days just as soon 
as you can. Of course I didn’t let her know that you 


132 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


were in any danger. But she’s lonely, Alan, and I 
wish you’d go to see her, even if it means postponing 
your experiments a little.” Then Mary, flushing, 
added shyly, “You mustn’t let your work interfere 
with those who love you—your mother—and me.” 

She turned away for a moment, as though ashamed 
of her emotion. Her head was still averted as Alan 
stepped to her side, a mounting look of tenderness 
eclipsing the moroseness of his eyes. Yet he found it 
hard to speak as he reached for the hand that hung 
white at Mary’s side. 

They were interrupted by Don Powell’s call from 
the stair-landing and Mary’s hand dropped from 
Alan’s as the younger man swung in through the door. 

“There’s something to that hunch of yours about 
Hyde,” was his breathless comment. “I caught the 
beggar releasing a carrier pigeon just beyond the sec¬ 
ond tower. He swears it was only a hurt bird that 
fell in the enclosure. But I don’t like the looks of 
things!” 

“No more do I,” said the older man with a quick 
glance over his tower-rail. “And I’d rather like to get 
Admiral Walsworth up here at once.” 

It was Don alone who smiled at Mary’s gesture. 

“He’s back at the club house drinking tea with the 
Madame Lacasse.” 



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THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 133 


“Then he’s picked a poor partner,” snapped the tired¬ 
eyed operator. 

“I don’t like to hear you criticizing my father,” 
snapped Mary, her color a trifle higher. 

“After what I’ve told you, I don’t believe you can 
blame me for criticizing his choice of Claire Lacasse 
as a companion and, possibly, confidante,” declared 
Alan stubbornly. He loved Mary, but he had never 
concealed the fact that he disliked her father. “It 
would be one of the best services you could render him 
if you would very plainly warn him that he is playing 
with fire when he as much as hints at anything con¬ 
nected with my invention to that woman.” 

Mary was about to speak, but she stopped short at 
the sound of two muffled reports across the twilight 
hills. 

“What are those signal shots?” demanded Alan as 
he caught up the binoculars. “And why isn’t Hyde 
stopping that closed car there at the field-gate?” He 
swung about to his assistant without waiting for an 
answer. “Go to your tower, as quick as you can, and 
bring back what you need.” Then, still tense with an 
excitement that seemed mysterious to the watching 
girl, he drew his triangulator-case to one side of the 
littered floor and kneeled beside it as he packed away] 
his apparatus. 


;i 3 4 THE STORY WITHOUT A) NAME 

“I believe you love that more than you do anything 
else in the world,” protested Mary as she reached a 
hand out to his oil-stained shoulder. 

He looked up quickly at her touch, but he remained 
on his knees beside his model as he fitted it delicately 
yet deftly into its case. 

“And when you’re through with this, Alan,” con¬ 
tinued the quiet-eyed girl, “there’s one thing I wish 
you’d make. I wish you’d make some sort of love 
amplifier, so that people who care for you can make 
themselves heard when they want to be heard!” 

He stopped, at that, with a look of contrition in his 
eyes. 

“Nothing is stronger than love,” he said, trying to 
speak steadily. “But in some way, Mary, this is dif¬ 
ferent. This stands for service, service to my country. 
I couldn’t quite explain it to you, but the nation that 
owns what I’m packing away in this carrying-case is 
the nation that is going to win the next war, that is 
going to be mistress of the world. It doesn’t look very 
big, but it can save our cities from destruction and our 
fleets from going down. It’s something I’m giving to 
my country. And until it’s safe in the Department’s 
keeping I don’t think I’ll ever draw a free breath.” 

“But what is it you’re afraid of?” asked the intent¬ 
eyed girl. 


THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 135 

«I w ish I could answer that,” was the other’s quick 
response. “But I can’t. And that’s where the trouble 
lies. Only, I feel like a field-mouse with a black-snake 
coiled over its grass-nest. There’s something going to 
strike, but I can’t tell when and how. Yet it’s not the 
loss of the model that worries me. I hold the secret 
of that right here in my own head. And I could make 
a hundred more, whenever the need arrives. But if 
this,” continued the stooping man, tapping the case 
between his knees, “fell into the hands of our enemies, 
if some foreign agent or spy got possession of it, as it 
stands, that enemy would have our seciet! 

“But what should we do, if anything did happen ? 
asked the girl, her face a trifle paler in the paling light. 

“The one thing I’d ask,” said Alan as he rose, “if 
anything should happen to me, would be to have this 
model destroyed where it stood. I’d rather see it all 
smashed to smithereens, before an enemy could get a 
hand on it.” 

He stopped short, at the ringing of a phone-bell, 
frowning as he held the receiver to his ear and got no 
answer to his call. From below the tower somewhere 
a motor-horn barked through the twilight. And the 
frown deepened on Alan’s face as he turned back to 
Mary, startled by the sudden cry from her lips. In her 


136 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

staring- eyes he saw a look of fear touched with won¬ 
der. Wheeling about and following the line of her 
vision, he saw a flare of flames surmounted by a bil¬ 
lowing drift of smoke. 

“That’s our auxiliary tower on fire!” he gasped, 
“It’s doomed, every timber of it!” 

“There’s Don and another man running toward it,” 
cried the trembling girl at the railing. “And there are 
other men under the tower here. Oh, Alan, what does 
it mean?” 

Instead of answering her, at the moment, Alan 
dodged into his cramped generator-room. When he 
returned he was hurriedly buckling a holstered army- 
revolver about his waist. 

“It means that fire was set to draw us from this 
tower to the auxiliary one,” he cried, as he crossed to 
the door and turned the key in the lock. “And it also 
means that I’m about to have some visitors here!” 

“But what can they do?” asked the girl, still further 
disturbed by the sternness of his face. 

“That’s what I’ve got to find out,” was his hurried 
retort. “And there’s a chance it may not be pleasant. 
So I don’t want you seen here. Get back in that gen¬ 
erator-room of mine. And stay there until I come for 
you.” 


THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 137 


“But if you’re in danger, Alan?” she said with a 
valorous tightening of the lips. 

“Quick!” he commanded, looking sharply about at 
the familiar drone of a seaplane as it circled and settled 
down somewhere along the valley of the Potomac, be¬ 
yond the drifting tower of smoke. 

A knock sounded on the tower door, but he did not 
answer it. Instead, he stooped and snatched the en¬ 
filading key from the core of his triangulator, crush¬ 
ing a row of cigarettes as he forced shut his chased 
silver cigarette case on the delicate instrument no 
thicker than a prayer-book and thrusting it deep into 
an inner pocket. Then he snapped down the case- 
cover and was about to lift the triangulator itself, ap¬ 
parently, to some sheltering corner of the tower. But 
before he could do this the locked door was shouldered 
abruptly in and two heavy figures strode across the 
tool-littered floor. 

As they did so Alan, narrow-eyed and watchful, 
stepped slowly away until his back was against the 
tower-rail. 

“How dare you violate government territory?” he 
challenged, his hand at his belt. 

“How dare you lock out government agents?” the 
older of the two intruders challenged back. “We’re 


I3 8 THE STORY WITHOUT A) NAME 
here on business, and that business is to take you to 
Washington at once. ’ 

“On whose instructions?” asked Alan, inching for¬ 
ward until he once more stood over his triangulator. 

“Here’s our orders from the secretary himself, re¬ 
torted the other, producing the document in question. 

“That order does not agree with the Department s 
wired instructions,” asserted the tight-jawed man con- 
fronting them. 

“Well, they’re orders, and they’re official, and 
they’re going to be obeyed,” cried the thicker-bodied 
man in the background as he kicked aside a tangle of 
insulated wire. 

The girl crouching in her narrow quarters was 
never quite certain as to just how it actually started. 
But at the same moment that Alan Holt flung out the 
claim that his captors had nothing to do with his De¬ 
partment or any other Department the heavier man 
reached for an automatic pistol and Alan himself 
whipped out his service revolver. But as he fired his 
arm was knocked aside by the second intruder and be¬ 
fore he could recover himself a blow on the head sent 
Alan reeling back against the tower-ledge. There he 
grappled with his assailant, fighting and straining to 
reach the fallen revolver that lay just beyond his reach. 


THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 139 


They writhed and rolled along the floor, gasping and 
grunting as they fought. 

It was then that Mary Walsworth emerged from 
her hiding-place. She appeared in time to see the 
heavier man bring the metal grip of his automatic 
down on Alan’s blood-stained head, striking cruelly, 
until the stunned figure relaxed on the acid-stained 
floor. She saw the second man promptly gather Alan 
up in his arms and carry him down the stairway, his 
hands trailing limp and a small runnel of blood trick¬ 
ling from his temple as he went. She saw her re¬ 
maining enemy stand in the open doorway, his pistol 
still in his hand as he called his orders down after his 
confederate. And she saw Alan’s triangulator, stand¬ 
ing there in its case, within ten paces of the criminal 
who would so soon possess it. 

Mary came of fighting stock, and, if she hesitated, 
it was only for a moment. Stooping low, she hurled 
her slender young body against the heavier body at 
the stair-head, crying aloud as she saw that startled 
figure go tumbling down the twisted steps. Then she 
swung shut the broken door, tilted over a work-table, 
and braced it against the one barrier that stood be¬ 
tween her and her enemies. Panting from her efforts, 
she listened for a moment as she heard the sound of 


i 4 o THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

voices below. She heard a car-engine race and stop 
and start again, a repeated low whistle answered by a 
second whistle farther down the hillside, a mounting 
trample of feet as still other enemies swarmed up to¬ 
ward her flimsily barred retreat. 

When she heard their blows on the crackling wood 
she no longer knew hesitation or fear. She glanced 
hurriedly about and ran to where a red fire-ax hung 
beside an extinguisher-cylinder. She snatched down 
the ax and, poising it above her head, turned back to 
where the triangulator stood. Then, with her jaw 
clenched tight, she brought the heavy metal ax-head 
down on the fragile machinery so delicately housed in 
its container. She brought it down again and again, 
until the complicated instrument lay an unintelligible 
and tangled mass of metal. And she was still flailing 
and crushing the scattered contents of the case when 
the door fell away and a dapper man of middle age 
rushed in and seized her by the wrist. He flung her 
back, with an animal-like cry of frustration, as he saw 
the tangle of metal at her feet. 

Then he stood in his tracks, with his breast pump¬ 
ing for breath, as he studied what the failing light re¬ 
vealed to him. 

“Don’t kill her, you fool!” he suddenly barked at 


THE ATTACK ON THE TOWER 141 


one of his followers who had drawn a revolver on the 
struggling girl. It was Alexis Christoff speaking, 
Christoff now admitting freely that he had two good 
legs and still wearing the ragged attire of a vagrant. 
But now he was seemingly in command of the squad 
of marauders and exulting in the fray. 

Yet it surprised her to hear him laugh, though it was 
a laugh without mirth. 

“We may have lost our fish,” he said with a forced 
smile, “but we can at least carry the bait along with 
us!” 

He stood silent a moment, deep in thought as he 
stooped and picked up a broken dial-indicator. Then 
with a curt motion he signaled for his followers to 
seize the girl. And again he laughed. 

“We must regard you, madame, as quite a heroine,” 
he said with mock gallantry. “You have worked well. 
But you will work much harder, before we are through 
with you, to repair what you have just done!” 

Mary, staring in the sinister face with its ominous 
flash of white teeth, made an effort to answer him. 
She tried to tell him that Alan Holt was still alive and 
while he lived would always look for her and protect 
her. But the words were cut off by a gross hand 
clamped over her mouth as she was caught up and 


142 THE STORY WITHOUT A 1 NAME 

carried hurriedly down to the closed car that stood 
waiting beside the tower-base. As she was thrust into 
this car and held and trussed there while they swerved 
away in a cloud of dust, her distracted eyes caught 
sight of a seaplane as it spiraled down farther and 
farther and gradually became quiet, having doubtless 
landed in the fast gathering darkness somewhere far¬ 
ther down upon the placid Potomac. 


CHAPTER XI 

AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 

A LAN HOLT, barely conscious after the cruel 
blow that had been struck on his head, was 
vaguely aware that he had been thrust roughly into 
the tonneau of an open automobile and that the car 
was now bumping at a rapid pace over an uneven 
country road. It was not quite dark and the thick 
woods that loomed blackly on either side of the road 
made it impossible for him to determine whither they 
were headed. Moreover, his arms were tied tightly to 
his side with a heavy rope, and his legs were similarly 
bound together. As he raised his throbbing head 
cautiously to gaze over the side of the car, the thick¬ 
set man who sat in the tonneau with him, his guard, 
annoyed by this sign of returning life in his captive, 
muttered a profane objurgation to the young inventor 
to lie still. In the front seat another burly fellow, the 
driver of the car, loomed darkly behind the wheel. 


143 


144 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

For several miles the ponderous machine lurched 
and squeaked over the uneven highway without any of 
its three occupants saying a word. Then the driver 
rasped thickly over his shoulder, “What became of 
Christoff after he ducked back into the tower ?” 

“I guess he went after the girl/' returned the other. 
“Did you see her? A good-looker all right. Trust 
Christoff to look out for her.” 

Alan felt his face flush, and he cursed to himself 
the ill luck that had made him the instrument of lead¬ 
ing Mary into danger and then being powerless to 
help her. 

“Say, how much farther is this dump, anyway?” 
growled Alan’s captor. 

“It isn’t far. Keep your shirt on,” encouraged the 
driver. “You can see the river through the trees 
now.” 

Alan, lifting his head warily, verified this. By the 
light of a newly risen full moon, the dark waters of 
the Potomac glistened oilily from between the thickly 
leafed maple trees. And, true to the driver’s predic¬ 
tion, the car presently swung into a grass-grown, aban¬ 
doned driveway that ran through an opening in a 
broken-down white picket fence and came to a halt in 
front of a dilapidated building that once had been a 


AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 


145 


prosperous Virginia mansion. The paint had scaled 
from the tall colonial columns in front of the house, 
many of the porch-boards had rotted and collapsed, 
and the shingles on the roof were in such miserable 
condition that they would never again shed water. 

As the driver, with a sigh of relief, climbed down 
from behind the wheel, Alan’s guardian sang out: 
“Come here! You’ll have to give me a lift with this 
fellow. He’s a husk.” 

Between them they seized Alan as if he were a 
baby, swung him over the side of the car, like lowering 
a coffin into an open grave, and carried him toward 
the veranda, where the once highly ornamental front 
door of the house hung crazily on its broken hinges. 
Alan could just make out that the house stood about 
a hundred yards from the river and that a dark figure 
was making its way gingerly from the water up toward 
the structure. At the same time his captors caught 
sight of the newcomer, and one of them hailed 
sharply, “Hey, who’s that? Stop or we’ll shoot.” 

“Oh, shut your trap, Barney,” drawled a voice 
through the darkness. “You couldn’t hit me, anyway.” 

“It’s Keith,” muttered the other man. “He’s al¬ 
ready landed. And fresh as ever.” 

The newcomer, Keith, had come up on the porch 


146 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


by the side steps by the time the men from the automo¬ 
bile and their bundle had ventured upon the creaking 
floor. Alan observed that Keith had an aviator’s coat, 
helmet and goggles on, was puffing nonchalantly on a 
cigarette, and appeared to be of a higher type than 
his captors. He was a stalwart young man of about 
twenty-five, an ex-Navy flyer as a matter of fact, and 
now, partly because he could not make nearly so much 
money legitimately and partly from a sheer love for 
adventure, was engaged in a somewhat more disreput¬ 
able business. 

“Well,” Keith inquired lazily as the two thug-like 
huskies and their prisoner approached, “what have you 
and the genial Stark got here now? Been out pot¬ 
hunting in the moonlight?” 

“Looks like we got the kid himself,” replied Bar¬ 
ney Burke. “And if you’ll kindly light a light in that 
dump, we’ll deposit him somewhere.” 

“What—the boy genius himself, in person?” Keith 
stooped over and peered good-naturedly into Alan’s 
swollen and cut face. “Well, so it is. And looks as if 
he’d just been through a ten-round bout or something. 
You lads haven’t been treating him rough, have you? 
The boss wouldn’t like that, you know.” 

“No rougher’n was necessary,” growled Con Stark, 
the chauffeur of the car. 


AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 


147 


Stark swung the ancient door open carefully lest it 
fall on his head, and instantly the lower part of the 
house was ablaze with light, to Alan s surprise. He 
judged correctly that the old mansion had lately been 
taken over by his new occupants and that an electric 
light system had been installed by them. His head 
ached so violently and his whole body was so bruised 
and sore that he made no violent objections when his 
bearers carried him across the living-room of the 
house and, opening a door leading into what he decid¬ 
ed must once have been a study, since empty, dust¬ 
laden bookcases still remained where they had been 
built into the walls, tossed him carelessly into a dirty 
corner. There he lay, huddled uncomfortably into a 
battered heap, grateful to be able to relax his body as 
much as his tight ropes allowed him and be alone with 
his thoughts. He closed his eyes to ease his tortured 
head. So utterly exhausted was he, not only by the 
recent battle he had been in but by the long days and 
sleepless nights of the past month, that, without having 
any intention in the world of doing so, he quickly fell 
off into an uneasy doze. 

Alan came to suddenly, an hour later, when the 
light was snapped on in his cobweb-draped apartment. 
He blinked dazedly up from his corner at the tall lean 


148 THE STORY WITHOUT Ai NAME 


figure of Keith, looming up before him in puttees, 
army breeches, O. D. shirt. The aviator was smoking 
a pipe and smiling a trifle derisively. 

“Well, you’re a cool one,” he commented drawl- 
ingly. “Sleeping when you’re in a mess like this. I 
thought I was the only lucky bird who could sleep any 
time, anywhere, sitting, standing, lying. I picked it 
up in France.” 

“So did I,” Alan relaxed into a grin. In spite of 
the bad company he was in and the brief glimpses he 
had had of him, he rather liked Keith. The aviator 
did not have the appearance of a professional thug, as 
did his two companions. And he was quite evidently 
a person of some education and refinement, if not of 
scruples. 

“How would you like me to loosen up that hawser 
they’ve got you made fast with?” suggested the flyer, 
but making no move to do so. 

“Great,” Alan agreed. 

“Well, it depends on how you answer this question— 
do you play bridge ?” 

“Some.” 

“Will you be a sport and play some now—with me 
and my two gentlemanly pirate friends ?” 

Alan thought quickly. If it would get his arms and 


AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 


149 


legs loose and keep him on the right side of Keith, his 
only possible ally, it might be wise to take advantage 
of the offer. So, though his head still ached and play¬ 
ing bridge was the last thing he wanted to do under 
the circumstances, he said, “Get my hands and legs 
free and I’ll play.” 

“Good,” said Keith, and stooping, quickly untied 
the rope and permitted Alan to stretch his cramped 
limbs and stand up. “Right this way to the gilded 
hall of chance,” he invited and held open the door. 

Under the light of a highly decorated chandelier 
that hung over a once valuable gold-colored table with 
spindly curved legs, sat sullenly Stark and Burke, 
their bulky bodies and rough clothes looking incon¬ 
gruous resting on the graceful chairs that matched the 
table. Two greasy decks of cards were stacked in 
front of them. A whisky-flask and three used glasses 
of odd shapes and sizes, also littered the table. 

“Here’s our fourth man,” announced Keith. 

“You’re a fool to let him loose,” growled Burke. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Matey,” disagreed 
Keith, breezily. “While my trusty automatic rests in 
my hip pocket and you two lads are also, I believe, 
similarly heeled, Mr. Holt’s chances of flying the coop 
are about as good as a celluloid pup’s in Hades. And 


150 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

I'd be one fine dub to go on playing three-handed with 
you two old wind-jammers when a perfectly good 
partner is reclining in his boudoir next door. Now, if 
you’ll kindly take that chair opposite me, Mr. Holt, 
we’ll endeavor to show these lads up. They play the 
game entirely by ear, and their bids don’t mean a 
thing, though I already owe them about fifteen bucks 
for the evening’s entertainment. However, if you 
will play close to your chest and forget about your face 
being knocked cock-eyed and your other troubles, we’ll 
offer our friends here an exhibition of the parlor sport 
that will make Joe Elwell turn over in his grave.” 

In the midst of dealing the cards, Keith stopped and 
asked, “Have you any dough on you, Holt ?” 

Alan shook his head. 

“Don’t let it annoy you,” soothed Keith. “I’ll stake 
you. If you lose, O. K. And I’ll cop all you win. I 
don’t think you’ll need money where you’re going.” 
From the significant glance that came out of the 
aviator’s steel-gray eyes, Alan decided that Keith 
could grow as ugly on occasion as he was good-natured 
now. 

When the cards had been dealt, Keith made another 
interruption. “How stupid of me,” he sang out, seiz¬ 
ing the whisky-flask. “We haven’t offered our guest 


AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 151 

a drink. Shag another glass somewhere, Burke, and 
we’ll have a trip around.” 

“No, thanks,” answered Alan. “I don’t really feel 
like drinking now.” 

“That’s bad,” mocked Keith, as he apportioned the 
remaining contents of the flask among the other three 
glasses and Burke, who had risen obediently to pro¬ 
cure another, resumed his seat. “I always play better 
when I’m half shot. And these other lads can’t see 
the cards at all without it. Their mental motors func¬ 
tion only on alcohol.” 

The drinks having been tossed off in three simul¬ 
taneous motions, the game proceeded at five cents a 
point. Alan had never played for such high stakes 
before. But he was a good bridge player and he saw 
no reason why he should not do his best, though the 
troublesome thought of Mary’s possible fate kept 
plunging into his head. On the occasions when he was 
“dummy,” he glanced stealthily around him seeking 
possible means of escape. But the prospect was not 
good at present, and he decided that he would have to 
bide his time. 

“Keep your mind on the game, Holt,” Keith said to 
him sharply, on one such occasion. “You can’t get 
away. I’d plug you before you got to the door. And 


152 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

I'd really hate to do that, old man. You seem a fairly 
decent sort and a damned fine bridge player. And 
that is praise from Sir Hubert, because I’m not so bad 
with the cards myself.” 

The drinking kept pace with the game, Burke pro¬ 
ducing flasks of whisky from some unseen source in 
the rear of the house as quickly as the current flasks 
were consumed. Both Burke and Stark became pro¬ 
gressively more quarrelsome and careless with the 
cards as their heads grew fuddled. 

“You’ll find the game more interesting, Barney, if 
you quit trying to peek into my hand,” Keith warned 
Burke. 

The roughneck threw down his hand and started to 
scramble to his feet, crying, “What—you call me a 
cheat, you—” 

“Shut up and sit down!” roared Keith, and the 
manner in which the other man subsided showed Alan 
that the aviator had his two confederates cowed. 

At about three o’clock in the mornings Keith found 
the game growing uninteresting and called a halt. 

“Barney and Con are too drunk to see the spots on 
the cards any longer,” he explained. “And we’ve 
given them chance enough to pull themselves out of 
the hole if they’re ever going to. It’s an act of simple 


AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 


153 


mercy to their pocket-books to quit.” He figured in¬ 
dustriously on the dirty scrap of paper that served as 
score-pad and announced. “Sixty-four bucks and a 
half apiece from each of you two bozoes, if you please. 
And cash at once was the terms, I believe. Not bad, 
partner, not bad! Sorry I can't split with you, but I 
need it more than you do. And the little ride I'm 
going to give you in the morning is worth more than 
that, anyway.” 

Alan’s mind became alert at this first mention of 
the fate awaiting him. An airplane! Things were 
growing more complicated. He looked keenly at the 
flushed face of Keith, awaiting more disclosures. The 
aviator, who was carrying his liquor better than did 
his companions, but was even at that displaying some 
of the effects of it in the growing thickness of his 
voice and the bungling motions of his hands as he 
tried to put the battered cards back into their frayed 
boxes, revealed nothing more. 

“Now we’ll escort you back to your sleeping apart¬ 
ment, Mr. Holt, if you don’t mind,” he smiled blandly, 
and pocketing his winnings and rising, held the door 
of Alan’s dirty prison open. Inside the room he 
bade Alan stand still while he again trussed his arms 
and legs up with the rope. For an instant the in- 


i 5 4 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

ventor had an impulse to leap upon the bent back of 
the aviator and make a wild dash for freedom, but 
Stark and Burke loomed bulkily in the doorway and, 
in spite of their intoxicated condition, Alan decided 
that the moment was premature. So he permitted 
Keith to refix his bonds. However, by expanding his 
chest and muscles surreptitiously at opportune mo¬ 
ments, he managed to bring it about that the rope was 
not tied so tightly around him as Keith imagined he 
was tying it. Moreover, the hands of the flyer, un¬ 
steadied by continuous imbibing of alcohol, were not 
suited to the manufacture of extra-tight knots. 

“There, I guess that will make you sufficiently un¬ 
comfortable for the rest of the night,” Keith grinned, 
straightening up. “Now, Barney, you sleep in front of 
Mr. Holt’s boudoir door, and Con will sleep in front 
of the other door. And should, by any chance, Mr. 
Holt walk in his sleep, you two gentles will kindly 
pop him off without asking any questions. As long 
as he is nice, we shall be nice to him. But not one 
second longer. Get me, Holt?” There was no smile 
or drawl in Keith’s voice as he delivered this last 
question, which amounted to an order. 

When Keith had left the room and the heavy move¬ 
ments of Burke as he settled down in front of Alan s 


AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 


155 


door had ceased and silence reigned throughout the 
deserted old colonial mansion, Alan began feeling 
gingerly at the rope that bound him and discovered to 
his joy that it would be quite easy to loose it. His 
head was clear now and his senses alert. He was go¬ 
ing to try to escape, despite Keith’s warning, and go to 
Mary. To Mary first and then to deliver his precious 
triangulator safe to the Navy Department. 

Another half-hour of silence, broken only by the 
loud snores of Burke outside of his door, passed before 
Alan deemed it safe to make his sally. Then, squirm¬ 
ing stealthily around on the floor and using his teeth 
freely, he succeeded in first loosening and then freeing 
himself completely of the worn rope about his should¬ 
ers. To rid himself of his leg-bindings was the work 
of only a few minutes. Rising quietly to his feet he 
stood for a time to eliminate the numbness from his 
limbs. Then he tiptoed over to the door. True to his 
optimistic belief, it was unlocked, knob, lock and key 
having long since rusted out and disappeared. Dig¬ 
ging his fingers between the edge of the door and the 
jamb, he discovered another piece of luck. The door 
opened inward. He drew it toward him a few inches 
and peered out. 

The hulking body of Barney Burke was sprawled 


156 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

just the other side of the sill, clearly visible in the 
moonlight, which had grown more intense since Alan 
had last observed it calculatingly, and in a line with 
his vision to the outer door loomed another reclining 
body, that of Con Stark. Both were still as death. 

The door squeaked a little as he slowly opened it, 
and Alan stopped dead still, prepared to flop upon the 
floor if either of his guards awakened. But all re¬ 
mained peaceful as he cautiously stepped ovei Burke 
and walked on tiptoe toward the outer door. Here 
came difficulty. This door, he also knew, opened in¬ 
ward, directly against the body of Stark. He would 
have to seek some other egress. Windows? They 
were long and narrow, reaching to within a foot of 
the floor. The locks on these also, he found upon 
muffled inspection, were useless. Tugging quietly at 
the bottom of one, he succeeded in a series of noiseless 
yet strenuous movements in raising it enough to per¬ 
mit the passage of his body. 

Alan’s clothes were wet with perspiration, as was his 
brow, though it was a surprisingly cool night. The 
tense strain under which he was working had this 
physical reaction. 

Stepping through the window, he was dismayed to 
discover the porch flooded with moonlight, and he 


AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 157 

also wondered what had become of Keith. Keith would 
be the hardest to handle in an encounter. He was the 
clever, the resourceful one. 

If he could once cover the open, moon-flooded hun¬ 
dred yards over the weed-grown lawn to the road by 
which he had come there and reach the wooded region 
beyond, he was safe, Alan assured himself. There 
was only one way to pass this dangerous sector. That 
was to make a run for it. So, with a hurried glance 
backward that assured him Burke and Stark were still 
undisturbed, he drew his battered body together, 
leaped off the porch, and started to run like a fright¬ 
ened deer. 

Almost simultaneously with his starting came leaden 
death hurtling through the air in the shape of a myriad 
of machine-gun bullets which whizzed in front of him, 
sizzled through the underbrush, and ricocheted on the 
rocks in his path. 

At the same time Keith’s voice came sharply from 
a clump of bushes fifty yards to his right where a 
sharp indentation of the river formed a little cove. 

“Stop where you are or you’re a dead man, Holt.” 
And when Alan kept on running, the aviator sent an¬ 
other barrage of bullets from the machine-gun 
mounted in the cockpit of his airplane, which he had 


358 THE STORY WITHOUT Aj NAME 

drawn up for the night on the rude landing-stage in 
the cove and beside which he had been sleeping to 
guard the machine against possible searchers after 
Alan. 

With this second onslaught Alan perceived that the 
jig was up. With still half the distance to safety to 
cover, Keith could cut him down the second he chose 
to fire at him instead of in front of him. So he 
stopped, the picture of dejection, and waited while the 
aviator, revolver in hand, emerged from the bushes 
that had concealed his resting-place. 

“Well, partner,” sang out Keith, “you’re a nervy 
guy, all right. But you can’t get away with a break¬ 
away like that! Not with Old Man Keith around! 
Only the fact that I liked the way you played bridge 
kept me from giving you the whole load in the back. 
Now, come along and we’ll hand some razzberry to 
those stupid asses, Burke and Stark.” 

His hand on Alan’s arm, Keith, still clutching his 1 
gun ready for business, led him back to the house. 
Pushing the front door savagely, he roused the heavy¬ 
eyed Stark and gave him a tongue-lashing that pro¬ 
vided Alan with new ideas as to this young man’s 
temper when it swung into action. Burke, too, had 
scrambled to his feet and received his share of the 
aviator’s fury. 



AGAINST HEAVY ODDS 


159 


Thoroughly sobered now, Keith bound Alan with 
double knots. They were knots that even Houdini 
himself could have small chance of escape from. And 
to make doubly sure of preventing further mishap, the 
aviator lay down in front of the door inside the room 
with Alan. 

4 ‘Better grab some sleep now, buddy/’ he said 
grimly to Alan. “Because you’re in for a big day. 
And no more monkey-shines or I’ll blow your head 
off without giving you the warning I did the last 
time.” 


CHAPTER XII 


THE COURAGE OF MARY WALSWORTH 

W HEN Mary Walsworth, twisting and strug¬ 
gling, had been at length subdued and, her arms 
trussed securely to her body with heavy wire and her 
ankles bound together, had been thrust quite exhausted 
into the tonneau of an open touring-car, the machine 
started at once in the same direction as that taken by 
Alan’s captors and at the same rapid pace. Beside 
Mary, in the semi-darkness, loomed the dark face of 
Alexis Christoff, and a burly ruffian hunched in front 
of her over the wheel. 

But having proceeded a couple of miles over the 
country road taken by Holt and his companions, the 
automobile swerved abruptly on to a smooth macadam 
thoroughfare and the pace became even more rapid. 
The cool night air revived Mary somewhat and, sick 
at heart, she wondered whither she was being borne. 
Her two silent guards vouchsafed no information. 

160 



COURAGE OF MARY WALSWORTH 161 

When they had spun along for over an hour and 
the moon had risen quite high in the clear sky, the car 
suddenly slowed down as a cluster of sign-posts were 
revealed by its lights, dead ahead. The driver seemed 
somewhat uncertain as to his farther course and looked 
questioningly back at Christoff. 

“Not lost are you?” snapped Claire Lacasse’s 

brother. 

“I think it’s the road to the right,” offered the driv¬ 
er, turning and revealing an ugly squatty face of which 
the chief feature was a large twisted nose such as those 
worn by unsuccessful prize-fighters after a long cam¬ 
paign in the ring. 

“Well, take a chance then,” growled Christoff. 
“We can’t fool around here all night with this bright 
moon.” 

The driver obediently turned the car to the right on 
to another dirt road filled with rocks and ruts and was 
soon bumping along at a lively pace. Another hour of 
this and Christoff exclaimed with considerable relief, 
“We’re right, thank God.” 

Mary raised her head cautiously, to discover what 
had caused this remark. She glimpsed about half a. 
mile in front of them the reflection of the moon on 
water and the mast-lights of a boat at rest. Through 


162 the story without a name 


a flat, swampy section the car now plunged, the craft's 
riding-lights becoming more distinct and, as they drew 
nearer, the graceful hulk of a large, trim yacht reveal¬ 
ing itself by the circles of brightness that she knew 
were the portholes of the cabins. And soon the ma¬ 
chine was rumbling over the loose boards of a crude 
dock alongside which the yacht, bulking very larger 
and of ultra-modem design though painted a warlike 
steel-gray, was made fast. A rough man in a sweater 
and dungarees was walking along the dock and ap¬ 
proached the automobile aggressively as it stopped. 
Mary could see the pistol-holster strapped around his 
waist and the sight of it was not reassuring. 

“It's Christoff," sang out Mary’s guard, a salutation 
which apparently satisfied the man on the dock, for he 
nodded curtly and came nearer. 

“Is the chief aboard?" Christoff asked at once. 

“Yes. Got here an hour ago," answered the sentinel. 
<c He’s having his grub now." 

“All right," said Christoff. And then to Mary, “I 
guess you can navigate up that gangplank on your own 
pins, young lady. But no funny work! We’re three 
to one against you and there’s a crew of twenty on that 
yacht. Give me a hand with this wire, Jake," he added 
to the sentry. 


COURAGE OF MARY WALSWORTH 163 


The latter opened the door of the car and between 
them they loosed Mary's bonds and bade her rise. She 
could hardly stand on her cramped legs, as she obeyed, 
but managed to step down from the car. Christoff 
seized her by the arm and she walked uncertainly up 
the gangplank with him. Several members of the 
crew, rough fellows badly in need of the barber’s at¬ 
tentions, stared at her as she approached, some of them 
venturing remarks of mingled admiration and derision 
that were quickly silenced by her escort. 

Christoff guided her along the rail of the ship for¬ 
ward to the companionway leading to the bridge and 
up this until she was standing with him just abaft of 
the compasses, the moon-brightened waters of Chesa¬ 
peake Bay stretching expansively before her. She 
glanced back into the lighted pilot-house and saw the 
stairway inside leading down into some interior cabin 
whence came the faint sounds of rattling dishes and 
low voices. She judged that this was the region in 
which the individual alluded to as “the chief” was en¬ 
joying his “grub.” 

Christoff was evidently afraid or reluctant to dis¬ 
turb the diner, since the former showed no signs of 
conducting his captive further, but stood leaning 
against the bridge rail and regarding her studiously. 


164 THE STORY WITHOUT A) NAME 

“1 hope you aren’t afraid of catching* cold in the 
night air, Miss Walsworth,” he finally remarked, with 
mock solicitude. “You won’t have long to wait.” 

Mary said nothing. 

“And whatever happens,” Christoff went on, “you 
have only yourself and your fool friend Holt to blame 
for your troubles. If you’d kept your hands off that 
machine, we wouldn’t have touched you.” 

“I fully realize that, and I’m not sorry for what I’ve 
done,” Mary declared. After all, she was still alive 
and unhurt, though seriously worried about Alan and 
herself. What had they done with him? 

“You’re liable to be sorry before we get through,” 
Christoff reminded her. 

“I’m not afraid,” defied Mary. 

He took another and crueller tack. He seemed to 
enjoy torturing the woman. 

“You may sing another song when we lay our hands 
on your father.” 

Mary started and grew pale. 

“Is my father here? Have you dared do violence 
to an officer of the Navy?” 

“He’s not here, but he will be soon. And he’s com¬ 
ing of his own free will.” 

“I don’t believe it.” Mary spoke up with spirit. 



SIG KURDER THREATENS MARY ON HER FLOATING PRISON. 






















COURAGE OF MARY WALSWORTH 165 


“Do you happen to know a very attractive woman 
named Claire Lacasse?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, supposing Madame Lacasse requested as a 
great personal favor that on the way back to Wash¬ 
ington Admiral Walsworth assist her in attending to 
a very urgent matter, and suppose the very urgent 
matter was located about this yacht? And further 
suppose that the admiral were told, once aboard the 
yacht, that his daughter was a prisoner and that the 
only condition on which she would be given her free¬ 
dom would be that the admiral reveal certain things 
about a certain invention that is in his possession. 
What do you suppose he would do, eh? Especially 
if he had been for the past three months carrying on 
an affaire d’amour with the lady that would not look 
well to the high officials of his Department and had 
already told her very important secrets?” 

“He would tell you all what you could do and de¬ 
mand my release at once—and get it,” declared Mary 
stoutly. But he/ voice did not carry conviction. She 
knew that her father did not consider the “death-ray” 
invention of nearly so much importance as did Alan 
and herself and the rest of the Consulting Board. 
Moreover, the admiral had upon occasion revealed 


166 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


that his character, softened by a long period of shore 
service in Washington, was not as rockbound and 
steadfast as Mary could have wished. There was 
some doubt in her mind as to just how defiant Admiral 
Walsworth might prove under the circumstances. 

She must warn him away, even at the sacrifice of 
herself. She must warn him. 

The voice of Christoff resumed, “Now I’m going 
to leave you for a few minutes and see if the chief is 
ready to see you. And I warn you: Behave like a 
perfect little lady. If you attempt to leave the ship, 
there are twenty men here only too eager to grab you. 
And they won’t treat you as nicely as I have, I can 
promise you that.” He grinned at her threateningly. 
“To make sure you’ll be quiet, we’ll close your 
mouth,” he added suddenly. Seizing her about the 
waist, he produced from his pocket the wire which 
had bound her previously and drew her over to the 
shadows on the other side of the bridge. There he 
lashed her slender body ruthlessly to the heavy stand¬ 
ard bearing the engine-room telegraph, further bind¬ 
ing her arms to her waist at the elbows and thrusting 
a knotted handkerchief into her throat as a gag. 

Hardly had he turned, entered the pilot-house, and 
descended the stairway when Mary, despite her pain, 


COURAGE OF MARY WALSWORTH 167 


caught sight of the twin lights of an automobile ap¬ 
proaching rapidly over the same flat road by which 
she had been carried to the yacht. Her father! Pilot¬ 
ed by the treacherous Claire Lacasse to his doom. 
Mary looked wildly about the bridge of the boat for 
the means of warning him and slumped against her 
bonds in despair. Was there no way out? 

Then close to her, fastened to the rail of the bridge, 
she glimpsed what resembled the key of a telegraph 
instrument. From her experience with ships she knew 
what it was. The controller of the flashing light by 
which ships communicated with one another visually, 
in the dark,—the blinker light! And high up on the 
mast under the anchor light she saw the lamp itself 
that sent out the messages. She knew the Morse code, 
and her father did also, of course. 

Heaving with all her might against the taut wires 
that bound her, she realized with a pang of joy that 
her arms, free from the elbows down, would permit 
her fingers just to reach the controller. She would 
defy Christoff and his forces of darkness, outwit him 
yet. Rapidly in her mind she composed her warning, 
and her white slim fingers pressed expertly upon the 
key. Dot - dash - dash. And she glanced eagerly 
aloft and saw the clear white flashing light responding. 


168 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

W-a-l-s-w-o-r-t-h g-o b-a-c-k. E-n-e-m-i-e-s 
a-b-o-a-r-d M-a-r-y p-r-i-s-o-n- 

This much of her message she succeeded in hurtling 
out into the night. Even when she was only half 
through it, she heard the loud cry from the dock and 
the scurrying of heavy feet up the gangplank, and in 
the midst of the last word a rough male figure fairly 
hurled himself upon her and jerked her arms away 
from the precious key. 

“Christoff! Christoff!” shouted her assailant, the 
man who stood guard on the dock. And almost in¬ 
stantly, Christoff appeared hurriedly from the pilot¬ 
house and behind him a dark bearded man with a nap¬ 
kin still tucked in at his chin. 

“She was sending a blinker message to her father/’ 
declared the guard. “See—he is turning back. The 
car has turned around.” Mary, to her infinite relief, 
verified that it was a tiny red light that was showing 
out there on the road across the marsh instead of two 
white ones. She had been in time, thank heaven! Not 
only had she warned her father out of danger, but he 
now knew where she was and he would bring help. 

“Damn you, I’ll—” Christoff bore down upon her, 
face distorted with baffled rage and arm uplifted. 

But the bearded man behind him, the chief, as Mary 


COURAGE OF MARY WALSWORTH 169 


guessed at once, grabbed Christoff’s arm and remarked 
steadily, “Let her alone. It’s your own fault. That’s 
one more blunder you’ll have to answer for.” Turning 
to a grizzled little man in the uniform of a private 
yacht captain, who had hustled up the outside bridge 
companionway from the region below, he said in the 
same quiet voice, “This changes our plans, Captain. 
We won’t wait until morning, but will shove off at 
once. Tell the radio man to inform Keith. He will 
have to pick us up in the bay. As for you, young lady, 
you are brave but very foolish, and your courage is 
very futile. Loosen her, Christoff, and I’ll show her 
to her cabin.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 
S the first signs of the rising sun, forecasting a’ 



Isl blisteringly hot day of clear weather, rose over 
Chesapeake Bay, Alan Holt blinked his eyes and 
awakened to find that the horrible dream that had 
been torturing him was only too true. He was in the 
hands of the enemy, and that part of the enemy rep¬ 
resented by ex-Lieutenant Hugh Keith had already 
risen, yawning, from the cramped position he had 
been occupying on the floor near the door and was 
standing over Alan with the same taunting smile his 
rather good-looking face had borne the night before. 

“Up and at ’em, Holt,” he ordered. “We have to 
get an early start.” Flinging open the door, he 
shouted, “Burke! Stark! Put our friend’s harness 
on, and we’ll be off.” In a moment the two assistant 
thugs appeared with wire and twisted it tightly around 
Alan’s arms and legs. On the hips of all three pro¬ 
truded businesslike lumps, and Alan realized anew 


170 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 171 


and with a sinking heart, that he was hopelessly in 
their power. 

Having lashed him, Burke and Stark followed 
Keith, who had already disappeared, out of the house 
and down a bush-lined path to the shore of the bay. 
There he saw close-up for the first time the fast sea¬ 
plane and the machine-gun mounted in the cockpit, 
the instrument of death with which Keith had stopped 
his flight the night before. Keith was already spin¬ 
ning the propeller and with a roar the engine took 
hold of it and its whirling blades flashed in the sun. 
Keith hopped into the forward seat, and Alan was 
summarily dumped in the cockpit behind by his two 
custodians. 

“Make yourself as comfortable as possible, old 
man,” Keith sang back. And to Burke and Stark: 
“All right! Shove off!” The two on the ground 
seized hold of the plane, pushed it off the smooth 
boards into the water. There it taxied smoothly out, 
gained speed, and under the control of its trained pilot 
lifted its nose and started climbing rapidly. Up and 
up it spiraled, leaving the Virginia woods behind and 
heading for the open bay. 

It hummed on its way, carrying a captive in the 
cock-pit on whose seared face the hardened blood had 


i 7 2 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

not yet been completely effaced, who looked about in 
thwarted bewilderment and at last lay back listening 
to the familiar drone of the engines and the whine of 
the wind through the plane-struts. He realized that 
he was being carried away, helpless and outwitted, 
from everything that made life worth living. 

Alan Holt lay back in the plane cock-pit, the wash 
of cool air clearing the fog from his brain. He saW 
that he was bound and trussed there with wire has¬ 
tily caught up from his own tower. And he further 
saw, on looking as carefully about as his cramped posi¬ 
tion would allow, that his captors had this time made 
a good job of it. 

Yet as he studied these constricting hoops he no¬ 
ticed that the end of one wire protruded from the coil 
about his arms. And on that inch of protruding 
metal, he felt, hinged his hopes. By shifting his body 
in its cramped quarters he was able to hook this wire- 
end under a fusilage-brace. Then by twisting his 
torso he was able to free an additional two or three 
inches of the metal. He repeated the operation, as 
the pit-floor vibrated and rose and fell in its flight, 
until a foot of wire hung loose from his aching biceps. 
By writhing on this he loosened a second strand, which 
he was able to snag over a protruding bolt-head, 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 173 


where, bracing himself, he pulled with all his weight. 
The wire finally broke under the strain. 

He repeated the operation, until the pressure about 
his arms was relaxed. He found, by expanding his 
lungs and straining his muscles, he could still farther 
expand the coils holding him, in. He could even shift 
the position of his right arm a little, so that his liber¬ 
ated fingers were finally able to pick at the metal 
threads about his wrists. But he had to break half a 
dozen of these, by patiently working them back and 
forth, before his arm was entirely free. 

With that arm free, however, the rest was merely 
a matter of time. He lay back, when the last wire 
had been removed, letting the blood once more flow 
through his cramped limbs and resting his aching 
body. Then, slowly raising himself in the cock-pit, 
he studied the pre-occupied back of the pilot in front 
of him and the surface of the water beneath him. 
They were flying, he concluded, somewhere over the 
lower Chesapeake. But it was a flight which he had 
no intention of seeing prolonged. 

His first impulse was to leap bodily on the back 
of Keith. But he remembered, on second thought, 
that all such planes had a dual control. So he dropped 
quietly back in his seat and seized the control-levers. 


174 


THE STORY WITHOUT AJ NAME 


He felt the counter-tug from the startled Keith, but 
the latter’s awakening came too late. The sea swam 
up to them. They were within two thousand feet of 
the surface before the leather-coated figure swung 
about and saw the source of his trouble. For one 
frantic moment they fought and tugged on their con¬ 
tending controls, one fighting for altitude and the 
other fighting to force a landing. That struggle did 
not end until the pilot, suddenly unbuckling his coat- 
strap, twisted about, with a revolver in his hand. And 
the same moment Alan saw that weapon he leaped on 
his enemy. 

They fought there in mid-air, with the wind tear¬ 
ing at their panting bodies and the plane tilting with 
their movements. They fought hand to hand, until 
the revolver fell from Keith’s bruised fingers into the 
sea, until Alan had his panting opponent pinned down 
by the throat, until he was able to switch off his engine 
as the careening winged thing sloped down and struck 
the water and rebounded and struck again, canting and 
quivering as it heeled along the ruptured surface. 
Before Alan could turn back from his controls his 
enemy had caught up a wrench from the pit-floor. 
Alan dodged the descending blow, captured and twist¬ 
ed the murderous weapon from his enemy—and sud- 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 175 


denly beheld that enemy snatch up a life-buoy and 
leap overboard. Alan caught sight of the bobbing head 
of the swimmer along the water at the same time he 
caught sight of a cabin cruiser bearing down on him. 
But he gave scant thought to either of them, for he had 
other things on his mind. He snatched up the head-set 
of the plane-radio in front of him, turned the tuning- 
dial, listened to first one voice and then another tra¬ 
versing the evening air, and was suddenly startled to 
pick up a broadcast message announcing that the 
daughter of Admiral Walsworth had been mysterious¬ 
ly abducted. 

That ended any indecision that may have remained 
with him. He flung himself into the pilot’s seat, 
snapped on the straps, and struggled with the mechan¬ 
ism of the unfamiliar plane. He was able, at last, to 
start the engine and hear the consoling whirr of the 
propeller blades. But before he could rise from the 
water the cabined motor-boat to which he had paid so 
little attention swung about in a smother of spray and 
came head-on into his drifting gondola. 

There was a crash and grind of metal against wood, 
a stunning sense of shock, and the clutch of rough 
hands on his body before he could recover himself and 
fend off his assailants. He found himself jerked and 


176 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

dragged about the narrow deck of the boat and thrust 
into the low-roofed cabin, where two burly seamen 
held him against the wall while a third man bound 
him hand and foot with a coil of ship-rope. Nor did 
it add to Alan's peace of mind to discern the water- 
soaked Keith from the wrecked sea-plane come and 
stand above him with the old smile of triumph on his 
face. He could ask for nothing but violence, he knew, 
from the uncouth quartet confronting him. 

But he was touched with perplexity, as the launch 
backed away and took up her course across the dusky 
water, by both their silence and their passivity. They 
let him lie in his cushioned seat-corner, without so 
much as a spoken word to him. And as they searched 
the twilit water and sped on their way a sense of still 
darker things impending took possession of the help¬ 
less man in the cabin-comer. 

He did not, however, remain long in doubt as to 
the nature of those eventualities. For, after half an 
hour’s speeding over an oily swell, he found the power 
suddenly shut off and the craft in which he rode nos¬ 
ing up beside a sea-going yacht that lay low in the 
water, as sleek and long and narrow as an otter. 

Alan could hear the exchange of muttered greet¬ 
ings as they drifted alongside, the thump of a thrown 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 177 

rope-end, the authoritative call of a deeper voice from 
the yacht deck. He was seized bodily the next mo¬ 
ment, and thrust unceremoniously up over the bur¬ 
nished deck-rail, where still other hands grasped him 
and half-hauled and half-carried him in to a spacious 
enough cabin where he stood blinking under the bril¬ 
liance of the clustered electric lights. 

The first thing that impressed him was the luxuri¬ 
ousness of his surroundings. And the second thing 
that came home to him, as one of the seamen cut away 
the ropes binding his legs, was the knowledge that he 
was being studied by a thick-shouldered man seated 
behind a highly polished hardwood table. Alan, as 
he heard the cabin-door close behind him, turned and 
inspected this man, inspected him with a stare as in¬ 
tent as his own. He saw a swarthy and black-bearded 
face in which were set a pair of equally dark and 
slightly reptilious eyes. These eyes, during the silence 
that ensued, continued to study the newcomer, to study 
him with a slight but sustained air of mockery. 

“You don’t know me?” finally said the deep-voiced 
man behind the table. His position behind this table, 
oddly enough, tended to give him a judicial air, like 
that of a magistrate on his bench. 

“I know of you,” retorted his prisoner, a flash of 
defiance on his fatigue-hollowed face. 


1178 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“Go on!” prompted the other, with his curtly 
ironic laugh. 

“You’re Mark Drakma, the spy who slinks about 
Washington posing as a wealthy planter,” cried out 
Alan Holt, burning with the indignities to which he 
had that day been subjected, “the spy who’s ready to 
traffic in the military secrets of my country or any 
other country.” 

“Go on!” again prompted the man at the table. 

“And if I’m not greatly mistaken you’re the head of 
one of the widest and rottenest aggregations of rum¬ 
runners along all our Atlantic Coast.” 

“I can’t deny the soft impeachment,” assented the 
man with the one-sided smile. “And I find it a very 
profitable occupation, as you may judge by the com¬ 
fort of this craft which you are honoring with your 
presence.” 

“It will be a very brief visit,” asserted Alan. 

“On the contrary, I’m afraid it may prove a very 
prolonged one. For we may as well get down to cases, 
Alan Holt, and find out how we stand here. You 
are not so thick-headed, I assume, as not to have an 
inkling of why I have arranged this little meeting.” 

The suavity went out of his face as his narrowed 
gaze met and locked with the gaze of the other man. 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 179 


“I know why I was brought here, just as I know, 
now, you were the man who had my first triangulator 
model stolen,” was Alan’s deliberated retort. “But 
before we go into that, I want to know just what you 
have done with Mary Walsworth.” 

The smile returned to the dark and thoughtful face. 

“We’ll come to that at the fit and proper time,” 
was Drakma’s answer. “I see you have no desire to 
beat about the bush, so we may as well get down to 
facts. You have made a radio-wave converger which 
you proposed to present to your country. But a re¬ 
public, I must remind you, is a notoriously ungrateful 
form of government. And as things now stand it 
will be profitable for you to present that instrument to 
Mark Drakma!” 

Alan’s laugh was both bitter and defiant. 

“You’ll never get it,” he cried, with his hands 
clenched. 

“I already have it,” countered the other, with care¬ 
fully maintained patience. “But there is apparently 
one final part which it will be necessary for you to 
fit into the apparatus.” 

“That, too, you’ll never get,” asserted the grim- 
jawed youth. 

Drakma’s face darkened at that, but he still held 
himself in. 


180 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“Let’s not be foolish about this,” he said with an 
achieved quietness of voice. “I want that apparatus 
and I’m going to have it. I’ve risked too much to 
trifle over this thing much longer. I’ve got you here 
in my power, and here you stay until you listen to 
reason.” 

It was Alan Holt’s face that darkened, this time, as 
he advanced on his enemy. 

“Do you suppose you can pull stuff like that to-day 
and get away with it?” he demanded. “I have friends, 
and those friends will make it their business to find 
out where I am. What’s more, I have all the forces 
of the American Government behind me, and when 
those wheels get in motion, Drakma, they will grind 
a little of the thievery out of you.” 

“Don’t count too much on those government 
forces,” was the other’s quick retort. “You’re already 
pretty well discredited with that government. And 
now that they are being presented with definite evi¬ 
dence you are trading with an enemy power, you’ll 
find—” 

“So that’s a part of your dirty program!” cried the 
man with the pinioned arms, leaning forward across 
the polished table-top. And as he did so the swarth¬ 
ier man rose from his chair, the last of his suaveness 
deserting him. 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 181 


“That’s only the overture to what you’re going to 
get before I’m through with you,” he barked out 
with his first look of open hate. “I’ve got you where 
I want you and I’ll get what I want out of you 1 ” 

“And how’ll you do that?” defied his prisoner, his 
eyes unflinching as his bearded big captor swung 
about the end of the table. 

“I’ll squeeze it out of your sullen head,” cried 
Drakma, with mounting rage. “I’ll get it out of you 
if I have to bum it out with a hot iron or pound it 
out with a club.” 

“You can’t!” countered the white-faced man con¬ 
fronting him. 

“Can’t I?” thundered the other, with a sudden 
eruption of anger. “Can’t I?” he repeated as his 
great fist struck the defiant white face. Then he 
seized his prisoner and thrust him back until he held 
him by the throat, skewered against the cabin-wall. 
There the huge fist again drew back and descended 
on the helpless face, leaving a small trickle of blood 
along the clenched jaw. Then in an increasing ecstasy 
of rage he flailed the trussed body from side to side, 
clutching it by the throat again and pinning it flat 
against the wall. He stood there panting, staring into 
the discolored face so close to his own, studying the 


182 


THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

blood-stained skull housing the secret which he sud¬ 
denly realized could not be forced out of it by violence. 

“God, but I’d like to kill you!” he gasped as his 
fingers relaxed from the bruised throat. “I’d like to 
throttle the life out of you! But that would make it 
too easy for you. And before I get through you’ll 
probably wish I had. So we’ll see if there isn’t a bet¬ 
ter way of getting your precious secret out of your 
hide.” 

He pulled himself together and strode back to his 
table, where his shaking finger touched a bell-button. 
His eyes glowed ominously as he watched his cap¬ 
tive, still tight-lipped and obdurate, with his back 
against the wall. 

“Bring in that woman,” was Drakma’s curt com¬ 
mand to the seaman who answered the bell-call. 
“We’ll see who’s master of this situation. I may have 
had my disappointments, but this, after all, hasn’t 
proved such a bad night for me.” 

Alan gave little thought to that boast, for the door 
opened, the next moment, and his startled eyes fell on 
Mary Walsworth. She was thrust into the room by 
two seamen, who, at a sign from their master, with¬ 
drew and closed the door after them. 

The first thing he noticed about her was the dis- 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 183 

quieting - pallor of her face. But her mouth was reso¬ 
lute as she stood, with her arms pinioned to her side, 
facing her tormentor. That tormentor seems to ex¬ 
pect some outburst of emotion from her as her gaze 
fell on Alan. But after one quick yet comprehensive 
glance at the man she loved she stood with her lumin¬ 
ous eyes fixed only on her captor, who laughed 
raucously and uneasily, out of the silence that ensued. 

“You two young people don’t seem overjoyed at 
getting together again!” he said' with venomous mirth. 
Then his face hardened, at a gasp of defiance from the 
girl, as he swung back to the man against the wall. 
“Well, if you want to stay together, you know the 
answer. If you want to go back to your own country, 
a free man, and carry this girl out of harm’s way, all 
you have to do is fit out that little instrument for 
me. That’s my final offer, and I want your final 
answer.” 

“So you include helpless women in your warfare!” 
was the cry from the man with the pinioned arms. 

“I’m ready to include anything, until I get what I’m 
after,” was the other’s equally passionate cry. “And 
death’ll probably seem sweet to this girl when she 
wakes up to what’s ahead of her, if you’re fool enough 
to force my hand. I’ve some choice specimens in my 


\ i 84 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

working crews off the islands out there. You d rather 
see her thrown into a cage of tigers, I fancy, than 
passed on to one of those gangs of rum-swilling cut¬ 
throats. But as sure as you’re standing there I’ll put 
her aboard the foulest schooner I own and leave her 
there until even you wouldn’t want what s left of 
her!” 

A dewing of moisture showed on Alan’s Holt’s 
blood-streaked face. 

“You wouldn’t, you couldn’t do a thing like that!” 
he cried with a gasp of horror. 

“I’ll do* it,” proclaimed the other, “and when you 
see it done you’ll sweat harder than you’re doing at 
this moment. So take your choice.” 

The helpless youth raised his stricken eyes to the 
face of the woman he loved. In that face he saw 
pride and purity. She impressed him as something 
flower-like and fragile, something to be sheltered and 
cherished and kept inviolate, something to die for, if 
need be, before gross hands should reach grossly out 
for her. 

“All right,” panted the prisoner. “I give up. 
There’s a price I can’t pay.” 

“And I get a completed triangulator ?” demanded 
Drakma, taking a deep breath. 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 185 

But the answer to that question did not come from 
Alan Holt. It came, low-toned and unexpected, from 
the white-faced girl on the other side of the room. 

“You do not,” she said, in a voice slightly tremu¬ 
lous with passion. “I’ll die before I’ll see that sur¬ 
rendered to you or to any other enemy of my country. 
Don’t you see, Alan, what this beast is trying to do? 
He’s trying to club your secret out of you with threats 
he daren’t carry out. He’s trying to torture you into 
being a traitor—for my sake. He’s asking you to be¬ 
tray your country, to give away something that no 
longer belongs to you, but to the land you love. He 
thinks he can force you into that because of our love 
for each other. But I wouldn’t let love be used for an 
end like that. And I won’t be a part in any such bar¬ 
gaining—no matter what it costs.” 

Alan’s drawn face seemed to catch fire from her 
words. He stared at her with widened eyes, moving 
forward a step or two. His shoulders were back and 
his head erect as he next spoke. 

“You’re right,” he said with a newer ring in his 
voice. “I carry that secret, thank God, shut up in my 
own head. And it will stay in my head. And in the 
end this man who is as low as an animal will prove 
that he has only the mind of an animal. He can 


j86 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

boast as he likes and try what he likes, but before lie 
goes far with this he’ll find himself defeated by his 
own evil.” 

His swarthy-faced enemy did not seem to hear him. 
That enemy’s narrowed gaze, in fact, was centered 
only on the white-faced girl directly in front of him. 
He continued to study her as he rose, with mottled 
face, and crossed slowly over to where she stood. 

“So this is your second trump!” he said with a hiss 
of hate in his voice as he suddenly caught at her 
shoulder and twisted her about. “Well, we’ll see how 
long you can swallow this sort of thing,” he con¬ 
tinued with his malignant laugh as he ripped the 
clothing from her slender shoulders. He reached out 
for her still again, but before he could act Alan Holt 
had catapulted his pinioned body against the startled 
Drakma, who turned sharply about, and sent his as¬ 
sailant falling back into a comer of the cabin, with a 
blow on the jaw. With what was practically a con¬ 
tinuation of the same movement he caught the girl and 
sent her reeling into the same corner, where she lay 
stunned beside the huddled figure already there. 

Drakma, purple-faced, strode to the table and rang 
his bell. 

“Take these two fools to their quarters below 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMYi 1x87 


deck/’ he said to the attendants who answered his call. 
“And see to it that they’re properly penned up. For 
we’re going to have considerable use for them, before 
this game’s played out!” 



CHAPTER XIV 


THE DECK OF LAST ORDEALS 

M ARK Drakma was in a much better position to 
carry out his threats than his two prisoners 
imagined. And once he stood convinced of the fixed 
opposition of those prisoners, he went on with his 
plans, without scruple and without hesitation. Too 
much was at stake, he knew, to have a failure. A 
king’s ransom awaited him, once he came into pos¬ 
session of the Holt triangulator. And since it was to 
prove his last coup in the New World, he intended to 
possess that instrument. 

The situation, it is true, presented its difficulties. 
He could not, as his primal instincts prompted, have 
this sullen-minded Alan Holt done away with. He 
could not batter in the head that held the secret essen¬ 
tial to his reward—that would be too blindly killing 
the goose that must lay the golden egg. But he could 
take this youth and the woman he loved and so place 
188 


THE DECK OF LAST ORDEALS 189 

them, Drakma remembered, that his prisoner’s will 
would crumble and he would cry out for mercy, for 
mercy at any cost. 

For Drakma, as the master-mind among the Atlan¬ 
tic Coast rum-runners, maintained along the fringe of 
the Bahamas an unsavory organization that was as 
efficient as it was lawless. Under him, in an unkempt 
fleet of luggers and sloops and power-boats, worked 
a drunken and care-free army of outlaws, the riff¬ 
raff of a thousand miles of coast-line and the scum 
of half-a-hundred seaports. On Jack-Ketch Cay, 
one of the hundreds of small coral islands fringing 
the Bahamas, he maintained a secret radio-station for 
directing the movements of these ships of mystery. 
And on his liaison craft The Martingale, a cutter- 
rigged sloop with an auxiliary engine, disguised as a 
copra-carrier from the lower Windwards, he main¬ 
tained a second sending-station for communication 
with his stealthy units as they dodged their coast- 
patrol enemies and returned to their master-ship for 
newer cargoes and instructions. 

The method of this communication was ingenious, 
for instead of broadcasting open messages or a code 
which would have promptly excited suspicion, Drakma 
had resorted to a more harmless-appearing exercise, 


190 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

that of innocently disseminating the popular songs of 
the day on various and varying instruments, the type 
of instrument and the precise time of sending deter¬ 
mining the nature of the message behind the tune. 

It was not, however, until they hove-to beside the 
Martingale, riding at anchor in a quiet sea, that 
Drakma confronted his two captives with what was 
actually ahead of them. And they arrived at an oppor¬ 
tune moment, for when Alan and Mary were brought 
up on deck they were able to gaze across a lazy tur¬ 
quoise sea and inspect a dirty sloop-deck overhung 
with stained canvas under which rough men brawled 
and idled and sang their drunken songs. Even as 
they looked a game of cards on one of the hatch- 
covers ended in a dispute which sharpened into a 
fight where oaths were flung back and forth and 
knives were drawn. This resulted in the appearance 
of the master of the craft from his chart-room with a 
revolver at his belt and a marlinspike in his hand, a 
lank and ungainly giant with a crooked nose and a 
stubble of russet hair along his tobacco-stained jaw. 
He scattered the fighting group and sent the last 
defier of his authority reeling across the unclean deck- 
boards, proclaiming that the next yellow dog who 
broached a keg of his rum would be thrown into the 


THE DECK OF LAST ORDEALS 


191 


briney. Then, taking a chew from his plug of black¬ 
jack, he turned and spat into the sea. 

As he did so he consented to look at the yacht 
along-side. He stood regarding it, swaying slightly 
in his tracks, his pale eyes squinting against the 
strong light that beat on his face. And over that 
face crept a slow smile as he beheld the white¬ 
skinned girl in the torn waist, standing within a bis¬ 
cuit-toss of him, studying him as closely as he in turn 
was studying her. He must have noticed the shudder 
that passed through the slender figure of the girl, for 
the loose lips over the yellow teeth broadened into a 
laugh and the big bony hand made an uncouth ges¬ 
ture of appreciation to Drakma, who stood at the 
burnished rail with a quiet smile on his own saturnine 
face. 

He walked slowly over to where the young inventor 
stood tight-lipped against the deck-house. 

“You said you didn’t ask for another chance, but 
I’m giving it to you,” announced Drakma, grim of 
face. “Do I get my instrument, or do I leave the 
girl on that sloop?” 

Alan’s face was pallid, as his gaze met Mary’s. 
But from that gaze he was able to drink resolution 
as the thirsty drink from a cup. 


192 THE STORY WITHOUT A' NAME 


“You’ve had our answer,” was the younger man’s 
quiet noted reply. 

Drakma stood silent a moment. Then he swung 
about with a gesture of finality. 

“All right,” he said, laughing his sinister laugh. 
“You two love-birds will do your cooing in a differ¬ 
ent way. You’re going to have three weeks to think 
this over. I won’t be here to see you do that think¬ 
ing, for I’ve got the round of my cays to make and a 
fresh shipment to scatter among my boats. But Sig 
Kurder over there will take care of your Mary. Sig’s 
the master of that sloop. And that’s Sig there with 
the crooked beak and the tobacco-stains on his sandy 
beard.” 

“Oh, God!” gasped the pallid-faced man with the 
pinioned arms. 

“Sig, as I said, will look after your lady,” con¬ 
tinued the mocking-eyed Drakma, “but you, my 
friend, are coming on with me to Jack-Ketch Cay. 
That’s a coral and sand-spit, ten or twelve miles 
farther out. I’m going to put you ashore there, and 
in my radio shack you’ll find all the tools you want 
to work with; tools and material enough to wire a 
battleship if you have the inclination. And right in 
front of your bunk in that little shack you’ll have a 


THE DECK OF LAST ORDEALS 


193 


low-powered radio set, a set for sending and receiv¬ 
ing, the same as the lady will have in the mate’s cabin 
aboard this sloop. I’m not leaving you together, 
remember. That would make it too soft. But I’m 
being considerate. I’m giving your lady friend the 
privilege of calling on you when she’s in trouble. And 
as time goes on, I’m afraid, her troubles may grow 
worse.” 

He stopped short in his talk to watch the haggard 
face of his prisoner. Then, smiling his one-sided 
smile, he turned and called out to his sloop-master: 
“Send your boat over for this woman.” 

Alan, at that, made an effort to break away from 
the sinewy brown hands holding him back. 

“No, no,” he cried. “It can’t be done. It’s not 
human. You can’t put a woman on a floating hell 
like that. It’s—it’s worse than putting a bullet through 
her head!” 

“Of course it is,” conceded Drakrna as he watched 
his prisoner’s frantic and futile efforts to free himself. 
“And I’m glad you’re beginning to understand the 
situation. It’ll give you something to think of when 
you’re at your island work-bench. You’ll realize what 
a nice refrigerator I’ve put your flower in to keep it 
fresh for you!” 


194 THE STORY WITHOUT A' NAME 


“Mary! Don’t go!” screamed the unhappy youth, 
straining forward, “I’ll give him what he asks for. 
But I can’t see you go!” 

The girl studied him for a moment of silence, stud¬ 
ied him with proud but pitiful eyes. 

“You can’t stop me,” she said with quiet determin¬ 
ation. “I believe in you and I believe in God—and 
I’m not afraid.” 

“But you don’t understand,” cried the man fighting 
to reach her side. “They’ll keep you in that hell¬ 
ish:-” 

“It can’t be for long, Alan,” broke in the girl, her 
head poised high and her hands clenched hard as she 
was seized and thrust toward the rail-opening. “And 
we’re doing it for a flag, dear, that men like this 
daren’t even fly!” 

“Haul him back!” commanded Drakma as the un¬ 
clean dingy bumped against the yacht-side and unclean 
hands reached up for her. 

“It can’t be for long,” repeated the girl as she was 
thrust down over the side. 

“Perhaps not,” cried Drakma, his gorilla-like face 
thrust close to Alan’s. “But it’s going to be until you 
get that finished instrument of yours in my hands. 
And that, my cringing hero, is final!” 



CHAPTER XV 


THE ISLAND OF ENDURANCE 

LAN, after being flung uncermoniously ashore 



a \ on his narrow island, lay inert and stunned on 
the warm sand as Mark Drakma and his yacht steamed 
stolidly away. Then the will to live reasserted itself 
and the castaway rose unsteadily to his feet, staring 
uncertainly about him. 

All he saw was a bald and bone-white island shone 
on by a bald and scorching sun. Midway between the 
two points of this island which stood without forest 
growth, was a rough shack of corrugated iron, rusted 
red with the rain and spray of many months. But out¬ 
side of that the island seemed to lie as empty as a tomb, 
a spot of desolation alone in the flashing turquoise 
seas, a place of sinister and unbroken silence. 

Yet a tatter of hope revived in him as he made his 
unsteady way up toward the lone iron work-shack on 
the near-by headland. As his enemy had promised, 


195 


196 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

he found a meager supply of food and water stored 
there. On the sheet-iron work-bench opposite the 
rough bunk his assessing eye took in the diminutive 
sending and receiving set, the “frame” slightly rusted 
with sea-water, vacuum-tubes in a broken-fronted cab¬ 
inet, a gloomy array of storage-batteries, some of them 
half-sunk in the sand under the shadowing table-top. 
In the comer of the shack, behind a galvanized dun¬ 
nage-box filled with scrap-iron, he found a useless gen¬ 
erator under a stained tarpaulin, as ironic in its sol¬ 
itude as a cart without a horse. Along the shelf at the 
back of the table his wandering eye took in still other 
evidences of some unknown electrician's past activities, 
a litter of wrenches and pliers and lead plates and in¬ 
duction-coils, carbon and wax and copper wire, sheets 
of zinc and a stray box of “spaghetti,” a small jar of 
shellac and a can of engine-oil, insulating tape and a 
row of acid-bottles, a broken belt-pulley, an alcohol- 
lamp , and a blow-pipe. 

The strange conglomeration gave a friendlier feeling 
to the lonely shack. They seemed almost to smile up 
to him, the familiar old tools and metals that had 
meant so much in his life. The one thing that weighed 
down on him was the absence of wood. The inside of 
the shack, like the island without, held nothing that 



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THE ISLAND OF ENDURANCE 197 

would float, that would carry him where it was essen¬ 
tial he should be carried. 

Then his eye wandered back to the work-table. And 
on the far end of it, under a square of blue-denim tied 
down with manilla cord, he found his first triangulator 
model in its slightly battered case, the triangulator that: 
had been stolen and spirited away from his workshop 
back in Latham. He smiled as he saw where some 
perplexed and patient hand had been trying to piece 
out its imperfections. And as he smiled his hand in¬ 
stinctively felt for the cigarette-case still hidden away 
in his inner pocket. And he stood fortified with a new 
sense of power. Then his restless gaze moved on to 
the radio instrument toward the center of the table. 
Almost automatically he clamped the head-set over his 
ears, turned his tuning-dial, and heard a voice come to 
him out of the silence. He caught a cadence or two, 
lost them, and again caught the ghostly accents out of 
the ether. 

“Alan, can you hear me?” said the tremulous voice 
of the woman he loved. “I’ve been calling and calling, 
but I’ve had no answer from you. And I’m afraid 
something has happened. Oh, Alan, can you hear 
me ?” 

They seemed suddenly close together, thus linked 


198 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


by the waves that science had made vocal. And a lit¬ 
tle of the desolation went out of the listening man’s 
heart as he turned and tested the roughly built send¬ 
ing-set and called hurriedly back to Mary Walsworth 
across the intervening waste of waters. He could hear 
her cry of relief and the added tremor that crept into 
her voice as she answered him. 

They were separated and yet they were mysteriously 
together as they talked back and forth, telling of their 
love and counseling courage and proclaiming that de¬ 
liverance would soon be at hand. Yet Alan’s face 
hardened as Mary told him of the conditions about 
her. 

“I intend to be brave, dear,” she said, “and I want 
you to be the same. But the one thing I’m afraid of 
is this man Kurder. He is evil, through and through.” 

“You will not have to endure him long!” cried Alan, 
desperate-eyed, as he smote the table with his fist. 
“God knows how, but in some way we’ll get out a 
call!” He tried to talk calmly again as he outlined a 
rough program of speaking back and forth at sunset 
and sunrise and high noon. But when he finally took 
the phones from his ears he sat back in his rough work¬ 
room with a more determined light in his eyes. 

He inventoried the apparatus all about him, trying 


THE ISLAND OF ENDURANCE 


199 


to decipher some plan whereby he could build up his 
power and increase his sending range so as to call for 
help. Yet there was little to hope for from the meager 
stores of his work-shack and still less from the barren 
spit of sand that fell away to the beryl-green lagoon 
between the broken lines of the coral reef. There was 
a distinct limit, he knew, to both the life and the 
strength of his batteries. They were precariously fee¬ 
ble even as they stood. Drakma, with his devilish cun¬ 
ning, had put his prisoner’s voice on a leash, leaving 
it to range as far as the sloop and little farther. And 
Alan’s enemy had left him with no source of energy 
either to recharge those tired batteries or to bring him 
the power he needed to bridge the waste of silence 
between him and his friends. That, he realized, had 
been a part of the trick to force his hand, giving him a 
taste of speech and then taking it away from him 
again. And it seemed worse, infinitely worse, than 
the ancient Chinese torture of confronting a starving 
prisoner with the pleasant fumes of cookery. 

He awakened to the fact, as his first day slipped 
drearily past, that he could not hope to reach the main¬ 
land by radio. Yet as evening deepened into night, 
the clear and pellucidly calm night of tropical peace so 
ideal for transmission, he sat before his rough table 


200 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


with the ear-phones adjusted, ranging through wave¬ 
length after wave-length in a lonely hunger for some 
word from the outer world. And as he listened there 
different far-off etheric voices began to sound in his 
ears. He caught faint echoes of the talk between the 
radio-officers on the American Fleet maneuvering off 
Guatanamo. He heard orchestra-music, winging its 
way over the Atlantic from heaven knew where. He 
heard an official call to the scout-cruiser Cincinnati 
remembering with a wayward glow of pride that it was 
the fastest war-ship afloat and wondering through 
what waters its pointed prow was plowing. He heard 
the notes of a saxaphone, disturbingly clear, and sur¬ 
mised it to be coming as a code-message from some cay 
or craft controlled by Drakma and his colleagues in 
outlawry. He sat depressed at this thought, bent low 
above his table, when out of the night there arrowed 
in to him another and a newer voice. It was a voice 
with a familiar ring to it and a quick needling of nerves 
thrilled his body as he listened. 

“If you hear this, Alan,” said that voice out of no¬ 
where, “remember that Don and his friends are fight¬ 
ing for you.” 

For he knew that it was Don Powell speaking across 
the night to him. And after a moment’s silence a 


THE ISLAND OF ENDURANCE 


201 


fainter and more tremulous voice spoke. It was his 
mother’s voice, bringing a gush of tears to his eyes as 
he listened. “Whatever has happened, Alan, your old 
mother believes in you. Wherever you are, my boy, 
she is praying to God for you, asking God in His good¬ 
ness to bring you back to her.” 

A far-away look crept into the exile’s eyes as he 
heard that message. He no longer felt alone in the 
world. If others were fighting for him he too must 
keep up the fight. He must, he reminded himself, in 
some way send out a radio call. And remembering 
Mary Walsworth’s plight, he must in some manner 
fight his way to Sig Kurder’s sloop and stand beside 
her in her peril. And as he tossed and groaned in his 
sleep that night he dreamed that Mark Drakma was 
strapping him in an electric-chair and compelling Mary 
to turn on the current which was to burn his body to 
a crisp. He wakened, roused by his own shout of ter¬ 
ror, and in the breaking morning light, his wavering 
glance fell on the triangulator standing on the table 
above his bunk. And around that instrument his re¬ 
viving hopes seem to duster, though he could not quite 
decipher in what manner it could be made to serve his 
ends. 

It was intolerably hot inside the metallic shack, and 


202 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


Alan, walking to the door, and standing to survey his 
desert world, was soon aware that it was even hotter 
outside. The sand sloping down to the sea fairly 
reeked and throbbed in the vibrating heat-waves that 
rolled up from it. He turned his eyes in the opposite 
direction for relief, toward the low grove of tropical 
greenery that beckoned about a quarter of a mile away. 
And he decided that there possibly was water, water 
to assuage his parched throat and to cleanse his bruised 
and soiled body. So he set out in the direction of this 
alluring oasis, his feet sinking clumsily into the loose 
sand and making the going very difficult and exhaust¬ 
ing. But attaining his goal, he felt that he had been 
well rewarded, for in the midst of the shadowing herb¬ 
age lay another world. 

Before him lay calmly a little pool of clear water, 
and, dipping his eager hands into it, he discovered that 
it was indeed not a mirage, but a reality. Ferns and 
myriads of blooming plants of every color—crimson, 
gold, every shade of yellow, blue, purple, pink, and 
white—grew all around, their delightful and pungent 
odors filling the air. It was a tropical paradise. 

Alan stood over the pool and could see clearly the 
white sand of the bottom. Then he stooped over, low¬ 
ered his head, sank his parched lips into the water, and 


THE ISLAND OF ENDURANCE 


203 


drank deeply and gratefully. After that, he splashed 
water over his face, ridding himself at last of the mat¬ 
ted and dried blood, the souvenirs of his battle in the 
tower, and cleansing the scars on his face and arms. 

On his way back to his lonely shack, he was per¬ 
turbed to discover that the hot sun had disappeared 
behind vari-colored clouds. For malevolent as was the 
heat of the sun, there was something ominous in the 
circumstances of its disappearance. On the day pre¬ 
vious, Alan had learned from snatches of conversation 
which the captain of the yacht had held with Drakma 
that a severe storm was feared to be in the offing. The 
barometer had been steadily falling and the very atmos¬ 
phere had been tense and heavy with something por¬ 
tending. 

Now, as he looked up into the sky, the shadows were 
deepening. The western heavens had darkened, and 
heavy purple billowed clouds, fringed on the edges with 
the orange rays of a fading sun fighting a losing bat¬ 
tle, filled the sky. The sun, however, still threw here 
and there a reddening beam. In spots clear blue 
showed through the sky, and Alan hoped against hope 
that things could clear up or, at the worst, the day 
would be visited by a mild thunder-storm. But his 
training as navigating officer on a transport during 


204 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


the war had taught him the dangerous developments 
that these celestial manifestations might portend. 

Nevertheless he entered the shack and took up again 
the task of taking an inventory of the tools at his 
disposal in a possible effort to effect his escape from 
his present predicament. He was interrupted in about 
half an hour by a rush of wind in at the open door 
and the single window that pierced the iron side of his 
workroom. Again Alan stepped to the door, and this 
time his heart sank. For the sky, a beautiful, rapidly 
changing panorama of color, was giving way to dense 
masses of greenish blue clouds. The sky, long since 
whipped with terrific winds when everything below 
was a deadly calm, was transferring its disturbance 
to the earth as if no longer able to bear it. A moan¬ 
ing hum and a whine, then a searching streak of light¬ 
ning followed by a crash of thunder split the heavens. 

It was as he had feared. A tropical hurricane was 
on the way and would arrive very soon. 

As the rain struck the earth like a great sheet, the 
wind increased enormously in volume. Alan retreated 
to the center of the shack and strove to lash the con¬ 
tents of the place down as well as he could with the 
meager equipment at hand. The structure rocked and 
great streams of water poured in at unclosable window 


THE ISLAND OF ENDURANCE 


205 


and door as if giants were tossing brimful buckets at 
him. He snatched up a tarpaulin from the floor and 
strove to cover the window, but it was snapped from 
his hand as he fought his way against the Niagara 
of water toward the opening. Above the wild noise 
of the wind and the pound of the rain against the roof 
sounded the flail of flying leaves and branches. The 
hurricane raged on, with ever increasing force. 

Above him he could see the roof lifting at the edges, 
ominously. It moved up and down at each new blast 
of the wind. Through the open window and door he 
could see lightning playing all about his refuge, ac¬ 
companied by ever more deafening claps of thunder. 

Already to his ankles in water and with the iron 
sides and roof of his abode sighing, buckling and 
bending, Alan knew that it was only a matter of min¬ 
utes before something would give way with a rush. 
He wondered desperately if it would not be the better 
plan to forestall disaster by trusting his life to the 
raging elements outside. His shoulders drooped, and 
an air of resignation was upon him even amid his 
frantic efforts to bolster up the tottering structure 
which afforded him doubtful protection. Finally he 
stood still. He could do no more. Having thus far 
escaped Mark Drakma’s worst, it seemed that nature 
was about to finish him. 


206 the story without a name 

He would make a break for it. The roof of the 
shack was lifting at one end at least six inches clear 
at each new onslaught of the gale. It would soon go 
scurrying off into mid-air, and the sides of the shack 
would follow. 

But as, poised for a rush outside to some place 
he knew not where, he hesitated an instant, a streak 
of lightning split the heavens and emitted a flying 
bolt not twenty yards from him into the sand, thunder 
rent the skies in twain, and a blast of wind traveling 
at prodigious speed attacked the radio shack of Mark 
Drakma, gathering the flimsy corrugated roof into its 
rough bosom and zipping it a quarter of a mile down 
the sandy beach. And, as if by a miracle, the four 
walls still stood. 

But not Alan Holt. A loose piece of sheeting, tom 
loose from the roof at the instant of its departure, had 
crashed down with terrific force, striking him a glanc¬ 
ing blow in the head just above the left ear. Alan fell 
abruptly, insensible, his body half immersed in water, 
the full force of the hurricane pounding down through 
the now open roof upon his helpless frame, a pitiful 
figure, a poor pigmy of a man who had dared to 
battle Nature in one of her uglier moods. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE AWAKENING OF THE ADMIRAL, 

W HEN Admiral Walsworth, speeding' as fast as 
his swallow-like little roadster would carry him 
through the night into the trap which Mark Drakma 
and Claire Lacasse had prepared, caught sight of 
Mary’s desperately managed warning blinking dead 
ahead of him in the darkness, his trained eye read the 
message at once. He gasped at its import and shot a 
quick glance at his companion, who was quite unaware 
of the significance of the flashing light. For an 
instant the admiral’s blind impulse was to put on more 
speed and, invading the yacht, the lighted port holes 
of which he could now discern, alone, wrest his daugh¬ 
ter from the hands of her captors. He was fairly 
fuming with rage, and his foot pressed down on the 
accelerator. 

But the next moment good sense succeeded fool¬ 
hardiness. He would only be playing into the hands 
of the enemy if he attempted a one-man assault of the 
207 


2o8 THE STORY WITHOUT A 1 NAME 


doubtlessly thickly inhabited craft. And so he slapped 
on the brake, and, without a word of explanation to 
Madame Lacasse, swerved his car around in the nar¬ 
row dirt road and started back on. his tracks at top 
speed. 

“Why are we returning ?” madame asked sharply, 
concealing with difficulty her disappointment at the 
sudden apparent failure of, her coup. 

“Danger ahead/’ fairly snarled the admiral. He 
did not exactly suspect her, but he had no time for 
conventional politeness with his daughter’s life pos¬ 
sibly at stake. 

In twenty minutes they had arrived at the last 
little village through which they had passed on their 
way to perform Claire’s mysterious errand. Here the 
admiral stopped the car in front of the general store, 
the brightest light in town. Several men were loafing 
upon the porch, and others appeared, attracted by the 
strange sight of an admiral of the Navy in their 
midst. In a few words he explained Mary’s plight 
and his mission. His listeners, grasping the situation 
with gratifying speed, dispersed in several directions 
for weapons and within ten minutes had reassembled 
at the store armed with shot-guns, rifles and revolvers. 
Four of them piled into the undersized tonneau of 


AWAKENING OF THE ADMIRAL 209 


the admiral’s car, and the rest found places in three 
other machines that were at once placed at the naval 
man’s service. With a concerted whirring* of motors 
and clouds of dust the cavalcade started back toward 
the yacht, grimly intent upon a battle and a rescue. 

Lurching, bumping, with reckless disregard of 
safety and speed laws, Admiral Walsworth’s car in 
the lead, they plunged back over the road. But, half 
a mile from the dock, the admiral’s heart sank, and in 
another five minutes his fears were confirmed. The 
birds of prey had flown. Ranged on the rickety dock 
in an over-heated, coughing line, the automobiles of 
the volunteer posse had arrived too late. 

Wanly thanking his assistants and accepting their 
crude words of sympathy, the admiral again turned 
the roadster around and started back for Washington. 
Dropping Claire at her apartment, he started at once 
for the Washington Navy Yard. He could at least 
set the Coast Guard in action and other naval agen¬ 
cies operating in Chesapeake Bay to discover the 
whereabouts of Mary’s floating prison. It was not 
until three in the morning that he at last sought his 
bed, and then not to sleep but to plan other means of 
locating his daughter. 

Banished from Admiral Walsworth’s head were all 


210 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

thoughts of Claire Lacasse. He did not entertain sus¬ 
picions of her; he simply had no time now to think 
of her at all. His mind was entirely upon Mary. 

Consequently, arriving at his office at eleven 
o’clock, he was annoyed to find there a note from 
Claire inviting him to her apartment the following 
afternoon, an invitation worded in a way that would 
normally have proved a most alluring and unconven¬ 
tional bait for the officer. He tore the note up, after 
hurriedly reading it, and tossed it into his waste¬ 
basket. Then he looked up to find the orderly, whose 
post was outside his office door, standing in front of 
his desk at salute. 

“Marine Sergeant Donald Powell to see you, sir,” 
announced the orderly. “He wishes to speak to you 
about your daughter, sir.” 

Powell? He was the man, Walsworth, recalled, 
who had served as Alan Holt’s assistant. Damn 
Holt! Had it not been for Holt and the inexplicable 
attraction which he had for Mary, she would not be 
in this predicament. But Powell might have news. 

“Tell him to come in,” growled the admiral. 

“Very good, sir,” answered the orderly and, sal¬ 
uting, departed and closed the door behind him. 

After Don Powell, looking forlorn and worried 


AWAKENING OF THE ADMIRAL 211 


himself, had entered the room with the admiral, the 
orderly, standing outside, wondered if he had made 
a mistake in announcing the visitor and whether he 
should not, as had been his first impulse, have sent 
Powell about his business. For loud angry words 
carried out to him from the admiral’s deep throat. 

“How dare you make such statements!” roared Ad¬ 
miral Walsworth. “Rank insubordination, young 
man, that’s what it is.” 

But then Powell said something more in a rapid, 
low voice, and the admiral calmed down. And when 
the Marine passed the orderly at the conclusion of the 
interview, Don’s face was white but it held a look of 
satisfaction. 

As for Admiral Walsworth, when he was again 
alone he stood in front of his desk in grim silence, his 
gray eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. Then he picked up 
his telephone and called a private number on the wire. 

“Hello, Baird?” he asked eagerly as soon as the 
connection was made. “Can you step over here for a 
few minutes? I have a case I think you’ll be inter¬ 
ested in.” 

At the conclusion of the talk on the wire. Admiral 
Walsworth had come to the conclusion that he would, 
after all, call upon Claire Lacasse privately in response 
to her invitation. 


212 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

The stage was all set at the luxurious and discreet 
apartment of the colorful French siren the following 
afternoon when the admiral made his visit. She was 
dressed in most unconventionally flimsy and clinging 
draperies and her greeting was warm in the extreme. 

“My poor dear/’ she consoled him, her sensitive 
hands laid upon his shoulders, “you must be so wor¬ 
ried about your daughter. It is ver’ sad. My heart 
goes out to you-—and her. Please sit in this comfort¬ 
able chair and I will prepare you a nice cooling drink.” 

He accepted the drink. He suspected that he might 
need it. But he declined her invitation to share her 
chaise longue with her retaining his chair while she 
reclined serpentinely upon her favorite resting-place, 
the little table containing the two tall glasses standing 
between them. 

Never had she tried so hard to exert the influence 
of her seductive charms upon him and never with such 
lack of results. Rising and relieving him of his glass 
she pressed her face against his under the pretext of 
comforting him. 

“Sit down here with me and tell me all about it,” 
she Tirged, patting the place beside her on the soft 
chaise longue . But again he refused. Claire Lacasse 
decided then that the game had run along quite far 


AWAKENING OF THE ADMIRAL’ 


213 


enough. The time had come for a reckoning with 
this great softy. So she pressed the button concealed 
on the floor beneath the table, and the trap was 
sprung. 

The admiral, who had been expecting just that, rose 
to meet Claire as, coming swiftly from her couch, she 
flung herself swooningly upon him and at almost 
the same instant Alexis Christoff appeared suddenly 
from the direction of the kitchen in the role of the 
avenging brother of an insulted sister. 

“How dare yon —” Christoff started to shout. 

At which Admiral Walsworth surprised the conspir¬ 
ators by calmly disregarding the locked arm of Claire 
about his neck and calling not very loudly in the direc¬ 
tion of the foyer hall, “Baird! Baird!” 

John Baird, burly, placid-eyed, efficient, stepped 
from behind the drapery that separated hall from liv- 
ing-room, followed by two keen young men, and 
placed his great right hand, that could close like a 
vise, upon the thin arm of Alexis Christoff. 

“Get that woman,” he ordered his assistants at the 
same time, and they jerked her unceremoniously from 
the unresisting admiral. 

“Don’t pull that injured innocence stuff, either of 
you,” snapped Baird contemptuously. “You know 


214 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

me—Baird of the Secret Service—and I know you 
both. We’ve been trying to get something on you for 
six years, Vera Christoff, and your brother will find 
that he has several other charges to face besides the 
one of jumping bail.” 

And now the eyes of Vera, alias Claire Eacasse, 
alias a score of other romantic-sounding names, were 
narrowed and snapping dangerously, like those of a 
hungry rat who has at last been cornered. In Her 
anger she for once forgot discretion. She attempted 
to rush toward Admiral Walsworth, who stood there 
stolidly watching the scene. She advanced with hands 
crooked, as if she would claw him to pieces. But the 
two Secret Service operatives held her fast. 

“I could kill you!” she screamed at him. 

The admiral bowed ironically. 

“If you had had your own way, madame, you would 
probably have succeeded, the night you lured me 
toward that accursed yacht on a false errand. I’ve 
been very foolish in my dealings with you. Sailormen 
have notorious weaknesses for pretty faces, as you 
well know. And I will take my medicine if there is 
any confessing to be done, when you’re brought to 
justice. But I warn you. My eyes are open now. I 
am no longer stupid.” 


AWAKENING OF THE ADMIRAL 215 

And as Baird and his men were leading their 
two prisoners off, Admiral Walsworth approached 
Claire again and said intensely, in a low voice: “I 
will promise you this: If you will give me informa¬ 
tion leading to the discovery of my daughter, I’ll see 
that leniency is exercised in punishing you. Will you 
do it?” 

She laughed unpleasantly. “Nevair!” she cried. 

“Very well,” he replied, his brow furrowed with 
the worry of the past few days. “I will find her, of 
course. I will move Heaven and earth to find her. 
I only give you the opportunity to help yourself by 
making it a little easier for me.” 

“You will nevair find her,” declared Claire Lacasse, 
“And even if by a miracle she; should come back, 
you will not want to see her.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE COMING OF DOLORES 

T HE girl did not have to go far for water. As 
she knelt, her bare sun-bronzed legs were sub¬ 
merged in it even above her dimpled knees. And to 
his waist the body of the dark-haired stranger, whose 
head she held so gently in her lap, was covered by the 
flood that had been poured through Drakma’s roofless 
radio shack by the hurricane sweeping Jack-Ketch 
Key. Dark-haired the stranger was—almost as dark 
as that of the beautiful creature who held it—dark 
save for the long, deep gash that made a red furrow 
in his curly disheveled locks. Cupping her brown 
hands, the girl was scooping up water from the abun¬ 
dant supply that lay all around her and applying it 
alternately to the gash and to the stranger's forehead. 

For over half an hour she had been doing this. 
Idling along the beach in this gloriously sunshiny 
morning after the havoc of the day and night before, 
216 


THE COMING OF DOLORES 


217 

she had noticed the damage wrought to the shack and 
had peered in the door curiously. Thus she had seen 
him and, wading in toward him fearlessly, had at once 
set about her work of succor. She had heard from 
Dan Potter that a stranger had come to the island 
from the ship of Mark Drakma, an enemy-stranger, 
but she had not suspected he was so young and attrac¬ 
tive. 

And now the girl’s patient efforts seemed about to 
be rewarded, for Alan Holt, who had been alternately 
conscious and unconscious since the section of falling 
metal had struck him, but quite unable to move, 
opened his eyes a little and peered up at her with 
amazement. 

“Who are you?” he asked weakly. 

“That is no nevair mind,” she answered gaily, re¬ 
straining an impulse to clap both of her hands for joy, 
like a child, because her patient had at last definitely 
come back to life. 

He had more than shown a sign of life in the next 
instant. The cool rain-water having its effect, he was 
trying to rise, using an elbow as a lever. 

“No, no,” she cried at once. “You must remain 
lie down.” 

“Thanks, but I can get up now,” Alan replied, and 


2 i8 the story without a name 

his voice was stronger, reflecting some of her own 
relief and joy. He wasn’t going to die then, after all. 
He would still be in time to rescue Mary. Already 
the pain of the previous night of shock and fading 
strength was passing. To prove his words, within five 
minutes he rose unsteadily to his feet, his body drip¬ 
ping water. The strange girl stepped quickly to his 
side and thrust a small but strong arm around his 
waist, supporting him, and he needed that arm. One 
of his own hands went up to the throbbing wound on 
his head and when he drew the hand away, there was 
no blood on it. She had done a good job. 

“But you haven’t answered my question, He insist¬ 
ed. “Who are you ? I thought I was the only person 
on this God-forsaken island.” 

“What matter who I am,” she asked. Then she 
shrugged her shoulders, bare above the narrow dimen¬ 
sions of the single crude and rather soiled garment 
that scantily covered her sun-browned body. “Ver’ 
well, if you must know. My name she is Dolores Pot¬ 
ter.” 

“But you are not an American. Spanish?” 

“Si, Senor. But my—my father he is American, 
Senor Dan Potter. We live down the beach about a 
mile. I tell you—you will come with me to my—my 


THE COMING OF DOLORES 


219 

father and he will fix your cut better than me, and he 
will give you dry clothes.” 

Alan, his head quite clear now, swashed through the 
water toward the door of the hut and stood there an 
instant basking in the warming sun before he answered 
Dolores, who had followed close behind. Something 
warned him to be cautious. This man Potter, this new 
complicatory, was undoubtedly an agent of Drakma’s. 
Had not Drakma boasted that he owned this forsaken 
key and all that was on it. But at least Potter would 
be white and American, and Alan’s own presence on 
the island had probably been made known to him even 
in advance of the inventor’s coming. So there would 
be everything to gain and nothing to lose in acceding 
to the girl’s suggestion, though already her close scru¬ 
tiny of him and the worshipful and almost caressing 
manner in which her dark expressive eyes hung upon 
him were becoming a little embarrassing. 

“All right,” he said cheerfully to her, “I’ll go along 
with you.” 

He found himself somewhat less steady upon his 
legs than he had hoped as they started down the sandy 
beach, the girl tripping lithely by his side and keeping 
up an animated chatter in an almost-English that 
under other circumstances he would have found very 


220 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

diverting. She was evidently about eighteen, but, like 
most Spanish girls, already matured into a woman, a 
glossy-haired, firm-skinned brunette whose beauty 
could not be obscured even by the ancient, faded gar¬ 
ment she was wearing. 

“I have heard my—father speak of you/’ she told 
him when they had traversed a half-mile or more of 
their journey. “I do not think he likes y ou ” 

He started, but endeavored to pass it off. “How 
can he tell, when he has never seen me?” 

“Senor Drakma he does not like you, he has told 
Dan—my father.” The word i father seemed to 
come each time with some difficulty. 

“But what has Drakma to do with your father?” 

“You do not know then?” She stopped and looked 
at him in surprise. “Dan is what you call agent of 
Drakma.” But then with sudden misgiving she 
ceased abruptly to give him further information. 
“Maybe I should not tell,” she flashed at him. 

However, some fifteen minutes later when she had 
guided him farther down the beach and then at right 
angles along a route that led to a path winding 
through a grove of palm trees and eventually to a 
crude one-story building, the abode of Dan Potter, 
further intelligence regarding his neighbors on the 


THE COMING OF DOLORES 


221 


desolate key was not long in being offered to Alan. 
For on the veranda that jutted out from two sides of 
the dwelling, a structure built quite high off the 
ground, evidently to avoid receiving unwelcome insect 
and reptile guests, a huge hulk of a man sat in a 
rickety rocking-chair drinking a highball out of a tall 
glass in one hand and creating artificial breezes with 
the torn palm-leaf fan he held in the other. Dirty and 
unshaven and disgustingly fat the man was as he sat 
there, an American of about forty-five, his raiment 
consisting of a stained undershirt and a pair of equally 
stained trousers held up by the frayed rope around his 
middle. His hair was prematurely gray, and his 
mottled pink face, in which were set very keen eyes 
with unhealthy puffs under them, expressed pristine 
cunning as well as a trace of, possibly, former refine¬ 
ment. 

Dan Potter did not betray any special surprise at 
seeing Dolores leading a stranger toward him. Nor 
did he rise as the Spanish girl rather timidly told him 
who Alan was, though he glanced sharply at her. 
Potter merely grunted in a wheezing voice, which, 
nevertheless, retained traces of an almost Bostonian 
accent. 

“Bring Mr. Holt a drink, Dolores.” And he bade 
Alan languidly to sit down. 


222 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

Alan did not stop her. He was not a drinking man, 
but he felt that his head needed it. And, indeed, the 
fiery concoction that Dolores handed to him with a 
flash of attempted coquetry; from her dark eyes seemed 
to help. 

“You have had an accident, Holt,” Potter observed 
without seeming to have cast as much as a glance at 
Alan’s wound. “Dolores, bring that first-aid kit. 
iYou know—bandage, medicine. Pronto!” 

When she had returned with it, Potter ordered, 
“Shove over here, Holt, and hold your head down.” 
And Drakma’s agent poured liquid from a little (bottle 
into the raw wound, causing a brief stabbing sensation 
that shot through Alan’s body and made him wince, 
then bound it up skilfully with gauze and adhesive 
tape. 

‘There/’ commented Potter, “no infection, now, 
eh?” And he returned to his drink and drained it. 

“Sony we offered you such a boisterous welcome,” 
he smiled. “But this is a great country for hurri¬ 
canes. Especially at this season of the year. I meant 
to get down to see you before. Drakma told me to 
keep an eye on you.” 

“You work for Drakma?” asked Alan. 

“Why not?—if you can call it work. I stopped 


THE COMING OF DOLORES 


223 


working when, I left college. Ah, that gets a rise 
out of you. Sure—Harvard. Would you believe it? 
And now, at forty-four, a bum, quite a contented bum. 
Too much money when I was a boy. And when my 
old man died and was supposed to be leaving me a 
couple of million and didn’t come through with a 
nickel, I had never learned to work, and so I didn’t 
work. Soldier of fortune, you understand. Liked my 
liquor too well. Drifted around the world, in and 
out of a dozen armies or so, Europe, South Africa, 
South America, Cuba, and now agent for the biggest 
bootlegger in the world. Think of that—Daniel 
Roulston Potter^ 2nd, by jove—working for a be¬ 
devil like Drakma!” 

“I can imagine nothing worse,” observed Alan; 

“However, young fellow, don’t get me wrong. I 
can see by your face that you’re thinking, ‘Well, 
well, here’s a chap that it won’t be hard to make a 
friend of. Here’s an ex-gentleman. He’ll be easy to per¬ 
suade to double-cross Drakma and help me out of 
this.’ Not at all, my boy. I have no desire to pass up 
the easy money I’m making out of Drakma, and I’m 
never going to leave this island and this girl-critter 
of mine. No, sir! Now that you’ve got wise to me, 
you’d better mind your p’s and q’s more closely than 


224 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

ever. Because Drakma has told me that if you make 
a getaway, it’s all off between, him and me. So I d 
just as soon plug you to keep you here as not.” He 
laid a flabby hand significantly upon the businesslike 
bump on his hip and smiled sardonically. 

Alan wisely sought to change the subject. 

“But how are you connected with Drakma’s boot¬ 
legging business?” he inquired cautiously. “I don’t 
see what use this out-of-the-way little island is to him 
for rum-running.” 

“Oh, you don’t, hey,” Potter laughed. “Well, just 
cast your eyes around the comer there.” 

Alan rose and looked. He saw that Dan Potter’s 
rude abode was situated on a cove that ran in from 
the ocean, a narrow cove that would hold with ease a 
score of large vessels, concealing them effectively from 
the sight of inquisitive craft sailing the high seas out¬ 
side, just as the grove of palm-trees hid the house 
almost completely from boats in the cove. Through 
the trees Alan could see a dock jutting out into the 
calm waters of the inlet, a dock piled high with cases 
of liquor ready for shipment. 

“Drakma runs his stuff in here from the Bahamas,” 
Potter explained, “and from here it goes by smaller 
boats and airplanes to the States. It’s easy. Like to 
walk down,—that is, if you’re feeling fit enough?” 


THE COMING OF DOLORES 


225. 


Displaying an unaccustomed energy, Potter lifted 
his bloated frame by degrees and grunting from the 
chair and motioned to Alan to go with him. As they 
stepped down from the veranda, Alan could see 
Dolores standing in the door, and as he looked she 
waved furtively to him and smiled. 

“It’s kind of nice to be able to talk to a white person 
again,” Potter offered as he waddled in front down 
the narrow path through the underbrush and trees. “I 
haven’t seen anybody but Drakma and a few of his 
thugs for about six months now. Except Dolores, of 
course, and she’s a spiggoty.” 

“Your daughter, you mean?” 

“Daughter? Hell, no!” Potter turned and snarl¬ 
ed. “Did she tell you 1 that? The little liar. Say, she 
must be sweet on you or something. How did she 
happen to dig you out, anyway? She started to tell 
me, but I shut her up. All women talk too much, you 
know.” 

Alan, recovering from his surprise at this insight 
into Dolores’ veracity and the real relationship be¬ 
tween the American and her, informed Potter of the 
circumstances of his rescue. 

“Hum,” grunted Potter. “Watch out for her. 
Fearful temper. Good-looking, but very violent in 


226 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

her likes and dislikes and liable to reverse them any, 
minute. Well, here we are. What do you think of 
the Potter Million Dollar Pier? Step out, but look 
sharp for loose boards. They’re liable to throw you 
in to the sharks." 

But it was not the loose boards that Alan's eyes 
were fixed upon. A small motor-boat tied to the out¬ 
board end of the pier had caught them. With this 
boat he could escape, fly to Mary. 

Potter glanced at him shrewdly, sensed his thought, 
and invited, “Step out and see my flag-ship. Greasy, 
coughs a little, but she runs." They sauntered out to 
the end of the pier, the fat derelict Harvardian and 
the lean young inventor. Together they stood in the 
narrow cockpit of the dirty old power-boat, and Potter 
turned over the engine, set it sputtering, regulated sev¬ 
eral gadgets until the cogs were turning smoothly, 
then shut it off. He looked at Alan out of his narrow 
eyes, much as a cat observes a mouse it is about to 
pounce upon. But he said nothing about the boat. He 
merely suggested, “Let’s go up to the house and get 
some grub." 

Alan saw that the sun was at its zenith, and the 
hollow feeling in his stomach reminded him that he 
had not eaten for nearly forty-eight hours. But he 


THE COMING OF DOLORES 


227 


was not thinking of food. He had seen a possible 
means of escape from the impossible situation into 
which the knavery of Mark Drakma had thrust him 
and he was busy devising a plan. 

All through the crude meal of canned vegetables, 
fruit and throat-scalding coffee, prepared and served 
by Dolores, he hardly heard what Potter was saying 
to him) in that irritating, worldy-wise old voice of his. 
He was concentrating on that motor-boat and what it 
might do for him if he could only lay his hands on it. 
And it should be easy. Potter had been so naive in 
showing it to him, demonstrating that it was all fueled 
and ready to start. 

When they had eaten and were again seated upon 
the veranda and Alan had declined his host’s offer of 
a black cigar, the latter asked, “Done anything on that 
contrivance Drakma put you on the beach here to fix 
up?” 

Alan shook his head. 

“Intend to?” Potter persisted. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Well, my advice to you, unsolicited as it is, is to 
go to it. Drakma is a bad man to fool with. Do as 
he says, take your money and beat it. What the 
devil do you owe to the United States Government 


228 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

anyway? They treated you dirty enough, as I under¬ 
stand it. Why not work for a man who is willing to 
pay you what you’re worth? That’s what I'm doing. 
I fought in the war, too—commission in the infantry. 
Finished a captain. And what the hell did it ever get 
me? Came back and found they’d taken my liquor 
away from me. I was a damned good soldier, too, 
good German-fighter and booze-fighter in one. So I 
went to Cuba. Found Dolores there in Havana and 
met Drakma. He set us up over here. Good job it 
was, too. He could use a smart fellow like you.” 

“No, thanks,” smiled Alan. Then he added curi¬ 
ously, “But haven’t you ever had a desire to leave this 
place and go back to the States and start over? 
You’re an educated man. This business isn’t for such 
as you.” 

“No, thanks, yourself,” retorted Potter. “I’ve got 
my wine and woman, three square meals a day, a place 
to sleep, and some money besides tucked away if I 
ever should be fool enough to go back. Why should 
I worry?” 

“Yes, why should you?” asked Alan, with his eyes 
out over the ocean’s rim. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


rALAN MAKES A SALLY 

B Y the time he had arrived back at his roofless 
shack, which Potter had voluntarily offered to 
send men to repair as soon as a crew arrived with 
another consignment of contraband liquor, Alan had 
decided that he would make his venture into the deep 
with the derelict’s motor-boat that very night. His 
head had stopped throbbing and was now crystal-clear. 
The walk down the beach in the blazing sun had dried 
his clothes, and the meal at Potter’s and the strong 
medicine administered to his wound had assisted his 
well-being tremendously. He made a small bundle 
of a few of the food supplies which Drakma’s men had 
landed for him. This he would take along. If he 
only had a compass! But it would be moonlight, a 
fact which was a hindrance as well as an advantage. 
He had a good general idea of where Kurder’s ship, 
the ship of dread on which Mary was a prisoner, lay. 
229 


230 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

He would find her or, failing, would be sure to be 
picked up by a passing ship within twenty-four hours. 
The busy sea lane leading to the West Indies could 
not be far to the eastward. 

What he would do if he should happen to discover 
Kurder's floating hell, he, a single man against so 
many, he did not dare to think about. 

Through the remaining hours of sunshine he waited 
impatiently. When at last dusk came and was suc¬ 
ceeded by darkness rendered almost as light as day by 
an austere but brightly shining moon, he set out stealth¬ 
ily. He did not walk openly along the beach but 
retreated first back to the grove where he had discov¬ 
ered the pool and bathed that first day on the island. 
Skirting the edge of this, he proceeded southward in 
the shadow, not venturing to invade the jungle of lush 
underbrush itself for fear of becoming lost. As it 
was he made a false detour or two, and he estimated 
that it must be after nine o'clock when, crouched 
almost double, he stood just inside the outer edge of 
the thick growth of tree and vine that surrounded the 
landward side of Potter’s house and carefully recon- 
noitered. 

In the moonlight he saw the old adventurer himself 
lolling again in the rickety rocking-chair and smoking. 


ALAN MAKES A SALLY 


231 


ever and again slapping lazily at the night insects that 
flew annoyingly around his dissipated face. On the 
floor near the American’s feet reclined Dolores, feet 
crossed under her. She was looking up at the moon 
with a fixedness that finally drew the languid atten¬ 
tion of Potter. 

Clearly the rasping voice of the former college-man 
came across the twenty yards or so of open space to 
the lurking Alan, “Mooning about our caller, hey?” 

Dolores started, her expressive face flashed anger, 
but she said nothing. 

“Well,” droned Potter sourly, “sorry to interrupt 
your love-dreams, but I want that bottle in there on 
the table.” 

She rose, entered the house and reappeared with 
flask and glass. Potter poured himself a stiff drink 
and drained it almost at a gulp. 

“Shake yourself, come on now, and go to bed,” 
growled the American. “These damned bugs are driv¬ 
ing me nutty.” 

Again the girl obeyed and, to Alan’s relief, both 
disappeared from the veranda. For another fifteen 
minutes he lingered in his hiding-place, then slowly 
and carefully worked his way in the shadow around 
the silent house to the underbrush near the landward 


232 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

end of the dock. Here he stopped again, ears alert 
for any ominous sound. But everything was quiet as 
a tomb. From his present position to the motor-boat, 
which he could see riding gently at the end of its rope 
at the farther end of the dock, was the most perilous 
sector of his Journey, he knew. It would, on the 
whole, be best to take it at top speed. 

Alan stooped down and removed his shoes. He 
stuffed the bundle of food into his shirt. Then, with 
a silent prayer, he gained the first boards of the dock 
and ran swiftly out, without a look behind him to 
the boat. Stooping and untying the line that bound 
the craft to the dock, he slipped down into its little 
cockpit, casting a look behind him and seeing that so 
far all was well. Since the noise of the motor, he 
feared, would rouse the sleeping Potter, he pushed the 
boat away from the dock as far as he could and then 
put an additional twenty feet of water between himself 
and the landing place by paddling with as little com¬ 
motion as possible with his hands. Then, putting his 
luck to the test, he grasped the flywheel and attempted 
to turn the engine over. His first attempt was a fail¬ 
ure. There was a little cough from the motor, but 
that was all. Again he heaved to his task. But the 
machinery simply would not start. Perspiration stood 


ALAN MAKES A SALLY 


233 

out on Alan’s forehead, what with the strenuous effort 
and his controlled excitement. Grimly he set himself 
to work, shifting the spark, making other adjust¬ 
ments. There was simply nothing there that would 
start the thing. It sputtered, choked, died. 

Were it not for the fact that he had assured himself 
by observation while inspecting the boat with Potter 
that the gasoline-tank was full, he would have been 
suspicious that lack of fuel was the cause of the 
engine’s ineffectiveness. His garage training had 
taught him the symptoms. 

As he swung the flywheel for perhaps the twentieth 
time and despair was beginning to dash his high 
hopes, there suddenly sounded from the direction of 
the dock in the clear night air a throaty chuckle. Alan 
straightened up abruptly, whipped his body around, 
and saw, to his infinite chagrin, the flabby body of 
Potter standing there at the dock-end in soiled pajamas 
and observing his former guest’s predicament with 
quite evident pleasure. 

“No luck, my lad, eh?” called the reprobate glee¬ 
fully. “Well, well, thinking of leaving us, were you?” 

Alan glanced quickly around the bottom of the boat 
for means to propel it by hand. He would not be 
caught like a rat in a trap now that he had gone this 


234 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

far. He would make a wild run for it and trust to 
luck. But there was not a thing there to paddle with, 
not even a boat-hook. It was as if an unfriendly hand 
had foreseen his attempt to escape and had removed 
the implements that might have made for his success. 

“There’s no use thinking of cutting and running,” 
Potter called again, and this time more unpleasantly. 
“I drained the gasoline out of that tank and took out 
the oars. So just come on back and call it a night.” 
As if to punctuate his advice, the ex-collegian brought 
his right hand from his back to his waist and in the 
moonlight the revolver which that hand held flashed 
clearly. “At fifty yards in this moonlight,” Potter 
observed, “I could pick you off very neatly. And you 
wouldn’t want that to happen. So coil up that line in 
the bow there and toss it to me and I’ll pull you over 
here.” 

For an instant Alan had a mad impulse to disobey. 
It was heart-breaking, to be thwarted by this frayed 
hulk of a man just as he had been by that other jester- 
villain Keith. But as he hesitated. Potter calmly lifted 
his gun and sent a shot whistling over the bow of the 
boat and ricocheting over the placid water in the 
moonlight. 

“How would you like to have been on the receiving 


ALAN MAKES A SALLY 


235 


end of that one, eh?” he rumbled in his ugly guttural 
voice. “Come on now, no monkey-business. I'm get¬ 
ting impatient, and the bugs are bothering me. I don't 
suppose Drakma would mind if I killed you. And 
why should I care, my bucko?" 

Seeing that there was no help for it, Alan coiled 
the line and tossed it accurately to the older man's 
feet. The latter pulled him quite easily to the dock, 
where he beamed down at him sarcastically. 

“I just thought I'd test you out, my boy," smiled 
Potter. “I showed you my pretty little boat and the 
tank full of gas. I wondered just how anxious you 
were to leave us, and I wanted to show you what a 
fat chance you’ve got. I guess after this you'll behave 
yourself, eh?" 

And as they were walking up the dock. Potter’s 
resentment seeming to have vanished, he said in 
friendly fashion, “Say now, why don’t you be a good 
sensible lad and go to work on this triangulator thing 
for Drakma? He’ll probably give you a piece of 
change out of what he gets for it." 

“And you, too?" asked Alan, bitterly. 

“Well, I don’t mind saying I’ve been promised mine 
if I help the boss put it over." 

They parted near Potter’s veranda, Alan declining 


236 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

the latter’s invitation to have a drink “to your bad 
luck,” and the young inventor made his way slowly, 
tired and disappointed, back to his roofless shack to lie 
awake looking up at the moon and dreaming of Mary 
and wondering where means were coming from to 
rescue her from her incredible trouble. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A WOMAN SCORNED 

W ITH the coming of morning at last, Alan had 
decided that his own escape and the rescue of 
Mary could be effected in only two ways: Either he 
would have to construct for himself some sort of crude 
craft and span the stretch of water to Drakma’s sloop 
with it or he would have to increase enormously the 
power of the weak radio sending outfit that Drakma 
had tantalizingly placed at his disposal, and summon 
assistance from the outside world. 

And so, as soon as he had eaten his crude breakfast, 
he set feverishly to work building a canoe. From the 
beginning he could see that it would be a strange and 
flimsy craft, but all he asked was something to carry 
him as far as the sloop which he could just see anchored 
on the sky-line. He decided to make it a sort of cata¬ 
maran that could carry a rag of sail, a roughly mod¬ 
eled canoe with an out-rigger to steady it in those un- 
237 


238 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

certain seas. The framework of this canoe he was 
compelled to fashion from a few scattered firkin-hoops 
helped out with a few feet of rusty band-iron. As he 
had soldering-irons and an ample supply of solder on 
his work-table, he devised a water-proof outrigger by. 
cutting and soldering together a number of empty 
cans, saving two of the cans to be used as a sea-case, 
later, for his precious triangulator. 

But the graver problem presented itself when it 
came to finding covering-material for his canoe-frame. 
To do this he harvested every rag of cloth the cay- 
shack offered, every stray fragment of canvas, every 
foot of bleached old canopy cotton, above his doorway, 
even the worn and oil-stained overalls inherited from 
his predecessor on the island. With thread and needles 
inherited from that same forerunner he patched and 
stitched and sewed these fragments together. A day 
came and went and another day dawned and grew 
sultry with the mounting sun. But still he worked 
feverishly at his odd craft. He worked with every 
ounce of energy at his command, freshly disturbed by 
Mary’s talk over the radio that morning. She had 
confessed that there were rats aboard the sloop and 
they frightened her. But she was more afraid, she 
acknowledged, of the human rats about her. For some 


A WOMAN SCORNED 


239 


one had stolen the key of her cabin and she was no 
longer able to lock herself in. And Sig Kurder’s man¬ 
ner was not at all to her liking. But she still had faith 
in Alan, and in the power of their friends to find them. 

During the afternoon of the second day of his toil 
on his improvised canoe, he became uneasily aware 
that some one was approaching around the side of his 
shack. He looked up. startled, and saw that it was 
Dolores, bare-footed, soft-eyed, smiling. 

“I have scared you,” she said quietly. 

“Yes,” he acknowledged. 

She showed disconcerting signs of sitting down 
upon some of the material with which he was working 
and opening a friendly conversation. 

“Dan has forbid me to see you,” she offered, “But 
I have come anyway. He is very mad because you try 
to steal his boat.” 

“He didn’t seem to be,” Alan answered grimly. 

“That is his way. Always he smile. But he is 
cruel, ver’ cruel. He would kill you, as he say. He is 
a hard man.” She spoke as if from experience, and 
sighed. Then she guessed shrewdly, “You are mak¬ 
ing boat of your own? Yes. But it is no use. It will 
never float, and if weather goes bad you sink, eh?” 

“You think so?” 


240 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


“1 have canoe of my own,” she said, and he won¬ 
dered if there was any significance in her tone. But 
immediately she became silent, sitting there with un¬ 
conscious grace and observing him as he went steadily 
about his work. He was worried at her presence there, 
wondering if she would go back and tell Dan Potter 
what she had seen. In fifteen minutes or so, during 
which he knew that her moody eyes were fixed con¬ 
tinually upon him, she arose and approached him. 

“Do you then not like me, Alan ?” she asked, softly. 
Her brown body was very close to him and her voice 
very intimate. She was no simple-hearted coquette, 
this Spanish girl from Havana. Potter could have 
told him something of her direct methods in seeking 
men who took her fancy. Potter, who had discovered 
her under decidedly unconventional circumstances and, 
becoming her whim of the moment, had succeeded in 
persuading her to leave Cuba with him after he had 
met Mark Drakma by chance and formed a partner¬ 
ship with the international adventurer. Potter, whom 
she had grown to hate almost as quickly as her heart 
had flamed to his rough love-making, his roistering 
tongue and his large supply of money. Potter, who, 
beneath that placid exterior of his, was a violent man 
with a temper loosely under leash. Potter, who fre- 


A WOMAN SCORNED 


241 


quently beat her in his drunken outbursts and who, 
suspecting her present suddenly-conceived attachment 
for Alan Holt, was in reality amazingly jealous and 
would sooner have killed Alan for stealing the girl 
than he would for outwitting him and fleeing from the 
island. It was well that Alan’s heart was wholly 
Mary’s and that women had always, before he had 
met the daughter of Admiral Walsworth, occupied 
small place in his life. For in responding to the overt 
advances of Dan Potter’s girl he would assuredly have 
been playing with fire. 

“I am very grateful to you for what you did for 
me,” Alan answered her simply. “You probably saved 
my life after I was knocked out by the hurricane. 

But this was not what she was seeking, what she 
hoped he would tell her. This was no prelude to tak¬ 
ing her in his arms, this handsome young sun-bronzed 
American, and providing her with the thrill she craved. 

“That was nothing,” she assured him. “But you 
are my friend?” 

“Surely.” 

“But you are not ver’ friendly, my Alan.” Her 
body was boldly pressing against him and the look in 
her narrowed eyes as she regarded him over her bare 
shoulder sought something more than friendship. 


242 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

“I am very busy/’ he said uneasily, and, moving 
away from her, resumed his labors. 

“Ugh—you are so cold as ice,” she snapped in dis¬ 
gust, and abruptly hurried away as suddenly as she 
had come. 

But the next day she was back again, and once more 
she slyly made significant mention of the fact that she 
possessed a canoe. And this time, for Alan had had 
ill success in assembling his own crude little craft and 
was entertaining growing doubts of its practicability, 
he made movements to seize the straw she was hold¬ 
ing out to him. 

“Where is your canoe ?” he asked. 

“Ah, I will not tell you that,” she teased. Again 
she was standing very near to him and showing un¬ 
mistakably the attraction which he had for her. Alan 
did not move away. He was beginning to see in her 
a possible ally, a bridge that would lead him to an¬ 
other woman. And so he concealed the indifference 
with which he regarded her openly offered charms and 
deliberately played up to her smoldering passion. With 
a silently proffered prayer to Mary to forgive him, he 
smiled at Dolores and slipped an arm around her. It 
was enough. In an instant both of her soft, brown 
arms were around him, her full red lips on his, her 


A WOMAN SCORNED 


243 


body locked close to his, there under the scorching 
tropical sun for all the world to see, and none of the 
world seeing. He kissed her and simulated a response 
to her passion, for a full minute. Then he gently dis¬ 
engaged her from him. 

In another minute he considered it safe to ask, 
“You will help me? You and your canoe?” 

1 She nodded. “We will run away together, my 
Alan, you and I?” she asked eagerly. 

Here was an unlooked-for, though quite natural 
complication. She believed he loved her now. He 
had won her from Potter. She wanted to flee from 
the old lovf with the new. Offcourse he would have 
to take belong. Once reunited to Mary, he could 
dispose oilhis Spanish girl. He would not be treat¬ 
ing her heartlessly. He was quite sure that he was 
one of a long succession of men in her life and that 
she was using him really as a means of abandoning 
Potter, just as he, Alan, was using her. 

And so he said, “Yes—we will go away together,” 
and endeavoring to force as much feeling into it as 
possible. 

“When ?” she breathed. 

“To-night.” 

“No, my Alan. We will wait. In two days Dan is 


244 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


T 

S 


going on the ship that carries the rum out to Drakma’s 
yacht. He will be gone ten, twelve hours. Then we 
go—two nights from now. He will kill me if he finds 
I have told you he will be absent. But he will not 
know. Two nights from now, when darkness comes, 
y# will bring my canoe here, and we will go.” Again 
she was close to him, speaking hurriedly, eagerly, her 
breath coming fast. 

He could see the advantage of the time she had set. 

J no desire to be caught by Potter again, for his 

second capture, he was quite sure, would not turn out 
as fortunately as the first. 

All right, Alan replied. “I shall Be waiting. 
Meantime, you’d better not come back here, so that he 
will not suspect us.” 

“Ver’ well,” she agreed. Before she left him, the 
prospect of their agreed rendezvous and her depart¬ 
ure with him lighting her eyes brightly, she again 
flung her arms about him and he was obliged to fire 
his indifference once more into a sufficiently passion¬ 
ate embrace and kiss. 

I love you, Alan. You are so beeg—so handsome. 

I will go anywhere with you,” she breathed, caressing 
his lean brown chin, his neck, his shoulders, with her 
soft fingers. 



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A WOMAN SCORNED 


245 


When she had disappeared lightly, he sighed. Once 
again he was about to cast his fate into the lap of the 
gods. And this time matters were more intricate than 
ever. There was this colorful rival for his affections, 
Mary’s rival, he grimly smiled, to consider. 

During the next two days he abandoned his nearly 
completed canoe and devoted his attention to repair¬ 
ing the havoc the hurricane had wrought in the in- 
completed “death-ray” machine that filled one side of 
the shack, the machine which had been built from the 
model stolen from him by Alexis Christoff and which 
Mark Drakma had ordered him, on pain of his own 
destruction and that of the woman he loved, to com¬ 
plete and deliver. By noon of the fateful day on which 
the flight with Dolores was to be attempted, he had 
placed the machine in as good working order as it had 
been before the storm. It required only the enfilading- 
key, which Alan still carried in the precious cigarette 
case in his pocket, a few minor adjustments and power 
to make it work. But he did not intend to make it 
work for Drakma. It was for his own use, in case of 
emergency. 

Having accomplished this much, he sat down and 
tuned in on the weak radio set through which he had 
been keeping up his daily conversations with Mary. 


246 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

He had not told her of his adventure with Potter's 
motor-boat nor of his impending attempt to escape 
with Dolores, much as he was aching to do so, for he 
was quite sure that other ears than hers would be 
listening in on their communications. Drakma’s yacht 
and Kurder himself would be eavesdropping, he sus¬ 
pected, and he did not wish to apprise them of his 
plans. 

It was half an hour before he received a response 
from Mary, and then her voice, he felt, was unnatur¬ 
ally calm with the calmness of one who is seeking to 
conceal grave fears, almost terror. 

“Yes, I am all right, Alan—so far. But I. am 
afraid," she acknowledged. “How are you?" 

“Fine," he lied. “Have courage, darling. Things 
will soon come out all right." 

“I hope so. I have faith in you, my love." 

“Your love is all I need, sweetheart," he replied. 
“Oh, Mary, Mary, if there were only some way out of 
this fearful mess." 

And then suddenly a voice that was almost a hiss 
sounded in back of him. He turned to find Dolores 
standing there, Dolores who had approached noise¬ 
lessly as usual and had heard his love words to this 
other woman, Dolores with eyes flashing and lips 
curled into a snarl. 


A WOMAN SCORNED 


247 


“Darling, sweetheart,” she mocked him. “You lied 
to me. You—I risk my life to take you in my canoe, 
eh? To another woman, eh? I that big fool. No!” 
And she turned abruptly and fairly flew from his pres¬ 
ence, a string of vitriolic Spanish curses streaming 
back to him in her wake and these distinguishable 
words in English, “Wait till Dan comes back. I tell 
heem. He kill you!” 

“Who was that, Alan?” came the alarmed voice of 
Mary. 

Alan was torn with conflicting emotions. With the 
fleeing Spanish girl he saw possible escape, rescue of 
Mary, disappearing. Yet he wanted to explain to 
Mary that mysterious and scornful feminine voice that 
had come across the water to her ears. And so he 
wasted precious moments easing her heart and fears 
and his own conscience, and when he had finished and 
had dashed down to the water’s edge, Dolores and her 
canoe, for he surmised that for some reason she had 
come early to the rendezvous, were nowhere to be 
seen. At once he started, as fast as the loose sand of 
the beach would permit, recklessly toward the house of 
Potter. 

When he arrived all was silence there. There was 
not a sign of human life nor, what was more impor- 


24B THE STORY WITHOUT A‘ NAME 

tant, of any canoe or other craft. The cases of liquor 
and the motor-boat had even disappeared from the 
region of the dock. For nearly an hour he searched 
and then he was obliged to give it up and return dis¬ 
consolately to his hateful shack. Was the jealous 
Spanish girl mocking him somewhere from a leafy 
concealment ? 

And now Alan knew that his predicament was many 
times more difficult. The enraged Dolores would 
without a doubt invent a highly colored fabrication to 
tell the returning Potter. She would say, he conjec¬ 
tured, that Alan had made love to her, that he had 
attempted to steal her canoe, anything that might come 
into the furious mind of a woman scorned. Potter 
would be down upon him within twelve hours. There 
was no time to be lost. And yet what was there that 
promised him the slightest hope? 


CHAPTER XX 


THE ANSWER FROM THE SKY 

W HEN Alan reached his forlorn little shack after 
his unsuccessful search of the region of Dan 
Potter’s house, he set to work upon his impromptu ca¬ 
noe again as the only thing that presented the tiniest 
chance of assisting him from his dilemma. 

And, two hours later, as he struggled to water¬ 
proof the canoe-covering with shellac and a can of 
engine-dope found under his work-bench, he was 
startled to hear the faint but familiar drone of a plane. 
Looking up, he saw the floating cross enlarge to a 
thing with wings, heading over his island. And as it 
came closer he waved and shouted and signaled. But 
the sea-plane, flying low, winged on over the lonely 
cay without a break in the hum of its engine. Alan 
could even detect the derisive gesture of Hugh Keith, 
its pilot, as he leaned out over the fusilage with an 
arm-wave of mockery as he went on. 


249 


250 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

The lone exile anchored to his island took that 
winged messenger to be a sea-scout of Drakma’s carry¬ 
ing news of contraband to some outer cay. And his 
heart was bitter at Keith as he fell to work again on 
his flimsy craft, the craft that at its best could only 
crawl like a snail while his enemies could soar like a 
gull. 

That bitterness rose sharper than ever when, an 
hour later, Alan stood at his shack-door and again 
heard the familiar far-off drone, as the sunlit wings 
bore down on his cay. His eye fell on his triangula- 
tor—and a sudden tremor sped through his body. It 
would exhaust his batteries, it would leave him with¬ 
out power enough to send a call beyond his coral-reef, 
but if his instrument worked right he could bring 
down those needed wings within his lagoon. Then he 
could possess his enemy’s plane and fly straight to the 
sloop and the woman who needed him. It was his last 
throw with chance—but it was worth the risk. 

He remembered, as he linked up his triangulator and 
adjusted the auxiliary finder, that this venture would 
leave him silent, would cut his voice off from the girl 
so eagerly awaiting every word from him. But it was 
too late for half-measures, he told himself as he fitted 
the enfilading-key into his instrument. And instead 


THE ANSWER FROM THE SKY 251 


of his voice, if luck was with him, his own body would 
go winging toward the woman he loved. His body 
was tingling with excitement. 

He looked up, studiously, as the plane circled about 
his cay, insolently low, tilting like a hawk's body as it 
banked and swooped carelessly back over the lagoon 
edge. And it was then that Alan, bringing his dial- 
needles to rest in unison, gave the triangulator its last 
ounce of “juice." 

He saw, as he watched, the leather-clad body of the 
pilot half-rise in his seat, throw up his hands, and fall 
back against the fusilage. The plane, out of control 
dipped like a settling mallard into the lagoon water, 
lashed on through the shallows, and came crashing and 
plowing up on the cay-sand. It shattered a wing as it 
came, snapping the seat-belt and flinging the pilot over 
its broken propeller, where he lay stunned and help¬ 
less in the sand. 

Alan's heart sank as he saw that shattered wing and 
propeller, for he knew that his plan had failed. But he 
did not altogether give up. For already, out of that 
wreck, a new hope had been born. 

He saw, as he ran to the stunned man turning pain¬ 
fully over in the sand, that it was indeed Keith, the 
same reckless-faced pilot who had carried him out to 


252 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

the power-boat. And he made it a point, before any¬ 
thing else, to unbuckle the pistol-holster about the 
newcomer’s body and adjust it around his own waist. 

“Now get up,” he commanded, noticing that the 
other’s eyes were open. 

“I afraid I can’t,” was Keith’s muttered retortv 
“My leg seems to be broken. You did a very complete 
job, old man.” 

Alan guardedly examined the limb in question and 
found a clear enough fracture. He tore enough linen 
and brace-bars away from the shattered plane-wing to 
make splints, binding the hurt leg up as best he could. 
He waited for a whimper, as he strained to reduce the 
fracture. But his former enemy lay silent, merely 
gritting his teeth and asking for a cigarette when it 
was over. 

“You’ve at least got nerve,” admitted Alan as he 
carried the leather-clad figure up to his shack-bunk 
and gave him tepid water to drink. “And if you’ve 
got as good judgment you’ll not make another move to 
meddle with me. For I’m on my last move of this 
game. And that means, remember, I couldn’t stop to 
argue about treachery.” 

He tapped the pistol at his belt as he spoke. 

“I guess I’ve played about my last card,” admitted 


THE ANSWER FROM THE SKY 253 


the man on the bunk, smiling, nevertheless, as his 
dimmed eye watched Alan. 

But Alan’s thoughts were already on other things. 
Pie stooped and studied a sprocket-chain lying in the 
dunnage-box. Then he stared at the black-metaled 
generator in the shack-corner. Then he returned to 
the wrecked plane, almost on a run. He saw, as he 
looked it over, that it would never fly again, that it 
would never fly, at any rate, from that island. But he 
also saw that its engine was still intact. And when he 
inspected the tank and saw it held a respectable sup¬ 
ply of fuel his hopes suddenly rose. He had power 
here, power at his very threshold. That plane-engine, 
he knew, could never be moved up to his apparatus. 
But there was no reason why his apparatus could not 
be carried down to the engine. And he could put the 
heavy generator on skids and pole it down beside the 
stalled plane. From the shaft of that plane he could 
remove the broken propeller and replace it with the 
belt-pulley from the shack-shelf, once that pulley had 
been properly repaired. Then he could take the leather 
seat-straps from the plane and lace them together into 
a friction-belt and with that belt link up his propeller- 
shaft and the pulley of his near-by generator, properly 
bedded and braced in the sand. And that would give 


254 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

him power. And power meant a call to the waiting 
world. 

He conjectured that it would take at least a thousand 
watts, even with good atmospheric conditions, to 
reach Washington. He was discouraged, at first, by 
the smallness of his generator. But by charging his 
string of storage-batteries, he remembered, and then 
“floating” them across the generator, he planned to 
unite both in a dust of energy to give the needed 
wings to his words. And once he had reached that 
decision he set to work. 

He worked with runnels of sweat running down his 
body. He carried and pried and tugged until even the 
man on the bunk smiled at his madness. When that 
man stopped him, to ask for a drink of brandy, Alan 
retorted that he had no brandy and had not time to 
spare. 

“You may not have the time,” smiled the man on 
the bunk, “but I happen to know that if you dug two 
feet down in the sand on the east point of this cay 
you’d find five hundred cases of ninety-five per cent, 
old French cognac.” 

Alan gave little thought to that admission, for 
everything now depended, he felt, on how his genera¬ 
tor would be able to build up his depleted juice. He 


THE ANSWER FROM THE SKY 255 

soaped and adjusted his belt, started his engine, and 
heard the soul-satisfying hum of the machinery that 
sang hope to his heart. 

“I’ve got it!” he said with a shout of joy. And so 
relieved was he as his engine sang at its essential work 
that he took a spade from the shack-corner and tested 
the sand on the eastern cay-tip and returned with a 
bottle from one of the ruptured cases of old cognac. 

He watched Keith solemnly drink his health. Then 
he returned to his machinery, tested his batteries and 
found them still low, and, of a sudden almost ceased 
breathing. For his plane-engine had stuttered and 
come to a stop. His first movement was to spring to 
the fuel-tank. And his heart sank as he did so, for 
the tank was empty. He had used up his last ounce 
of gasoline. He could see the leak from the strained 
feed-pipe, wetting the sand at his feet. 

He staggered back, passing a dirt-stained hand over 
a dirt-stained brow. He was defeated, on the very 
brink of victory. His last move had failed. 

Then a new thought came to him, the thought of 
the ninety-five per cent, cognac under the sand. That 
was practically alcohol. And even in his garage days 
he had learned that with certain carburetor adjust¬ 
ments a gasoline-engine could be made to run with 


256 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


alcohol. And the man on the bunk, hearing Alan’s 
shout of triumph, thought his marooned companion 
had already imbibed too much from Mark Drakma’s 
cache. 

But it was the engine, and not its operator, that 
drank up the precious amber fluid, bottle by bottle, 
once the broken feed-pipe was prepared. And it sang 
with drunken power as it drank. The sun was low 
before its allotted task was done and a white-faced 
man standing before a rough bench on the lagoon- 
sand, turned to his receiving-set to see if he could 
catch his evening message from Mary Walsworth. 

He did not catch that message. What he heard, 
indeed, was a fragment of official instructions regard¬ 
ing what was apparently a presidential speech to be 
broadcast that evening. Because of the importance of 
this radio event the announcer went on, an order for 
silence had been imposed upon all stations, and this 
order was not to be violated. “From WEAF,” pro¬ 
ceeded the clear-cut and authoritative voice, “our 
president s words will be relayed by land-wires to 
twelve different broadcasting stations throughout 
these United States, and all America, it will be safe to 
say, listeners in a million homes and more, will be 
waiting for and will receive those words [” 


THE ANSWER FROM THE SKY 


257 


This was followed by a description of the stations 
and the wave-lengths to be used. But Alan did not 
listen in to more of that message. He re-fueled his 
tank and re-oiled his bearings and worked his engine 
until darkness dosed about him. He verified his 
mounting battery-power and stood by gobbling a sup¬ 
per of hard-tack and water. He returned to his engine 
and speeded it up, in his impatience, speeded it up until 
his grotesquely laced belt threatened to break and his 
imperfectly bedded generator started to rock. But 
through the wires connecting them with that genera¬ 
tor the batteries drank up power as tired draught- 
horses drink up water from a trough. And Alan, 
looking on his work, saw that it was good. 

Yet when his moment for sending arrived he had to 
school himself to calmness. He had to forget every¬ 
thing but the essential need confronting him. Con¬ 
scious as he stood that everything in life depended on 
that message, on that last call for succor, he gave little 
thought to the circumstances of its sending or the 
phrasing of its sentences. He stood ignorant of the 
fact the official announcer had just proclaimed that 
the president of the United States was speaking. He 
stood ignorant of the fact that an etheric silence had 
fallen across the continent, from coast to coast. He 


258 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

remembered only that he and the woman he loved 
were marooned in the midst of evil men, in the lonely 
Atlantic, and that their hope of life and happiness de¬ 
pended on the words which his uncouth apparatus was 
to send arrowing through the night to his homeland. 

And on a hundred-thousand instruments, instru¬ 
ments in coal-mines and touring-cars, in crowded city 
halls and lonely prairie shacks, in silenced theaters and 
narrow flat-parlors, in softly lighted living-rooms and 
gaily lighted cabarets, in the iron-walled rooms of 
ship-commanders and the dark-tabled board-room of 
the War Department itself, four million waiting ears 
listened to a strange and unexpected message. 

“For God's sake come to our help. This is Alan 
Holt speaking. Alan Holt. We are marooned and 
held prisoners off Jack-Ketch Cay. Relay to the Navy 
Department and advise Admiral Walsworth his daugh¬ 
ter is still alive. But help must come soon-” 

Alan, on his isolated sand-spit, crawled wearily to¬ 
ward his receiving-set, swept by a craving for Mary's 
companioning voice. He stood very alone in the 
world, oddly torn between hope and fear, now that he 
had shot his last bolt. His fingers were listless with a 
reaction of fatigue as he adjusted the frayed heat-set 
and automatically turned the tuning-dial. Then the 


THE ANSWER FROM THE SKY, 259 

listless fingers stiffened on the metal dial and his eyes 
widened as he listened. For the air-waves had spoken 
to him. 

It was Mary calling, calling to him in a voice thin 
with terror. 

“Can’t you hear me, Alan?” that phantasmal voice 
was imploring, in a tone so faltering that her words 
seemed without the power to rise as they ought. “I’ve 
been calling and calling, but you do not answer. And 
I can’t call more. They are fighting here, these drunk¬ 
en beasts all about me. And I’m afraid of Kurder. He 
doesn’t even care any more for Drakma or Drakma’s 
orders—his orders that I was only to be held here. 
But I can’t face this other thing! I can’t even get 
away to throw myself into the sea. And unless you 
come, unless you come soon, Alan, it will be too late.” 

Alan, with an animal-like small cry, tore the head¬ 
set from over his ears. All memory of that crowded 
day and night slipped away from him. He ran 
through the darkness to the shack, where he caught up 
a can of water and hard-tack and tossed them into his 
flimsy mockery of a canoe. After them he flung his 
triangulator, and after that the spade, which he in¬ 
tended to use as a paddle. Then he dragged his 
flimsy craft down over the sand to the lagoon’s edge. 


260 the story without a name 


where he could hear the outer surf’s slow booming or 
the reef. 

Somewhere in that outer darkness, he knew, beyond 
the reach of his vision, lay the sloop which he had to 
reach, which he must not fail to reach while a breath 
of life remained in his body. It was a frail craft, he 
hazily remembered as he pushed off through the opa¬ 
lescent water, in which he was facing the open Atlan¬ 
tic. But it was at least keeping afloat, he saw as he 
maneuvered for the reef-opening—and he had no 
choice in the matter. 

“I’m coming!” he gasped through gritted teeth, as 
though in answer to some second call winging its way 
across the low long swell where the swish of a dorsal- 
fin in his wake reminded him that he was not alone on 
the deep. “I’m coming!” he repeated, wielding his 
uncouth paddle with all his strength. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE RESPONSE TO THE CALL 

F OUR persons whose hearts were closely bound up 
with the plight of Alan Holt and Mary Wals- 
worth will never forget the events of that night when 
the sudden breaking of the silence that had surrounded 
the disappearance of the inventor and the admiral’s 
daughter brought them first hysterical joy, and then 
terrible fear and finally desperate determination. 

Don Powell sat with the Carter family in their com¬ 
fortable little farm-house, listening in on their radio, 
the radio, he now sadly recalled, that Alan and he had 
repaired in the twilight of a June evening when they 
had essayed to play golf. Since the swallowing up of 
Alan and Mary into the night, Don had not been very 
cheerful company. Every hour he could spare from 
his duties he had spent devising plans, theories and 
hopes to find the missing pair. Admiral Walsworth 
had unbent considerably in his attitude toward the 
young Marine sergeant since the latter’s courageous 
261 



262 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


revelations that had led to the undoing of Claire 
Lacasse. Despite the gulf of rank that separated 
them, the two had in a qualified way, become confi¬ 
dants, had shared hopes and disappointments together. 
But all of their schemes had thus far led to nothing. 
And both secretly were beginning to believe that per¬ 
haps they never would lead to anything, that Alan, 
and Mary had passed beyond the reach of help. 

And so when Don Powell made his little love excur¬ 
sions down to the farm of the Carters to see Ruth, he 
was usually glum, tense-nerved and silent. Sympa¬ 
thizing, she did not chide him. Her thoughts, too, were 
largely of the missing ones, and even old Sam Carter, 
though he professed at times to label Don as a crepe- 
hanger and about as cheerful a person to have around 
as a turkey buzzard, never failed to ask the youth for 
news and to listen eagerly to all that his visitor had to 
report about the vain search. Don had broadcast 
radio-messages until his throat was sore, in the wild 
chance of getting in touch with Alan. He had sat 
.with radio earphones pressed against his drums when¬ 
ever there was an opportunity, and the time and weath¬ 
er seemed propitious for word from his lost friend. 

It had been Don who, spending a twenty-four hour 
leave with the Carters, and once more at his usual occu- 


THE RESPONSE TO THE CALL 263 

pation, no longer a pastime but a stolidly pursued ef¬ 
fort to save two human lives, sitting with the shiny 
receivers clamped to his ears in the Carter parlor, had 
grown suddenly alert as the word came from the an¬ 
nouncer that the air would be cleared for the presi¬ 
dent’s message. Turning to Ruth and her father, 
whose heads also were semicircled with the metallic 
means of receiving communication from the air, he 
Said something rapidly. They removed their ear¬ 
phones to hear him, and he repeated the hope that had 
at that moment broken the sullen hopelessness of his 
young face. 

“If Alan is able to listen in, he’s heard that,” de¬ 
clared Don. “He’ll jump at the chance when the air is 
free, to call for help. But, of course, it’s only one 
chance in a million that he’s heard the announcement 
and that, even if he has, he’s able to get a message 
to us.” 

“Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if he could!” Ruth 
cried. There was a suspicion of tears in her blue eyes. 

All three listened in silence for a few moments. It 
seemed as if the whole world was hanging tense, that 
the fate of Alan and Mary was hanging with it. 

An eerie feeling that was broken astoundingly by 
the sharp clear voice of Alan, the voice that made Don 


264 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


Powell spring to his feet with an exclamation of joy 
and a face twisted almost with, it seemed, fear. And 
then Ruth cried openly, and Sam Carter looked as if 
he had suddenly seen a ghost walk into the room. 

‘Tor God’s sake come to our help. This is Alan 
Holt speaking—Alan Holt ... prisoners . * ; . 
[Jack-Ketch Cay.help must come soon/’ 

“My God!” cried Don, looking at the others, wildly, 
questioningly. “It was Alan, wasn’t it? You heard, 
didn’t you ? It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t—” 

His over-wrought nerves were very near to the snap¬ 
ping point. 

“No, Don, it wasn’t a dream. I heard,” answered 
Ruth. 

And Sam Carter chimed in, “Me, too. It’s fine. 
Now to send help hellbent!” 

Don had already decided upon his course of action. 

“I’m going right back to Washington and see Ad¬ 
miral Walsworth. Probably he’s received that message 
himself. But maybe I can be of some help.” 

“What—to-night?” asked Ruth. “It’s after ten.” 

“Sure he’ll go,” Sam Carter cut in, rising with un¬ 
accustomed alacrity. “We’ll all go—in my Ford.” 

Certain that the admiral must have been informed 
of the wonderful news, if he had indeed not heard it 



THE RESPONSE TO THE CALL 265 

at first hand, Don knew, an hour later when they had 
arrived in Washington, that the place to seek that 
official was at his office. He looked up eagerly as 
the ancient Carter flivver came to a screeching stop 
in front of the Navy Building and saw that the suite 
of rooms occupied by Admiral Walsworth’s bureau 
was ablaze with light. 

To the armed sailor who stopped him at the entrance, 
he asked eagerly, “Is Admiral Walsworth up there ?” 

“No,” answered the seaman. “He came tearing 
down here an hour ago, but he’s gone now. He went 
over to the Navy Department with a gang of four- 
stripers. And the Secretary of the Navy himself was 
with him. They were all as excited as a bunch of gobs 
in from a year on the China station. Say, buddy, 
what’s up? War been declared?” 

“They’ve got a message from the admiral’s daughter 
and Holt.” 

“What! Say—great stuff! No wonder the old 
man’s worked up. He’s been like walking death for 
the past three weeks.” 

But Don had already bounded down the steps and 
back into the front seat of the flivver. At the gate of 
the Navy Yard the car was stopped by a heavy-eyed 
guard who asked interminable questions until Ruth 


266 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


suggested, “Leave us here, Don, and go in alone. 
We’ll wait.” 

“Yes, go ahead, young man, before you bu’st,” said 
Sam Carter from the back seat. 

Don almost collided with the admiral who, with the 
Secretary of the Navy and a retinue of high officers, 
was hurrying out of the Administration Building. 

“Ah, Powell,” cried the admiral at once, ignoring 
the fact that Don in his excitement had neglected to 
salute the highest officials of the Department, “I 
wondered if you’d heard. Isn’t it amazing. Isn’t it 
wonderful? We’re going after them at once. The 
secretary has agreed to render every assistance, and 
we’ve been in touch with the president himself. I’m 
on my way now to the flying field at Hampton Roads 
to board an airplane. We’ve got their approximate 
position. A destroyer is to proceed from the Roads 
and the Colorado is already in the neighborhood. 
We’re getting in touch with her.” 

“I’d like to come along, sir, if I could,” offered Don. 

The admiral turned to the kindly-faced civilian with 
him, “Mr. Secretary, this young Marine has been of 
untold assistance to me. I’d like him in at the finish.” 

“By all means,” agreed the secretary. 

“Good,” almost panted the admiral. “Come along, 


THE RESPONSE TO THE CALL 267 

Powell. We’ll drive my car to Hampton Roads. The 
destroyer is to leave there in the morning at daybreak 
and you can go aboard.” His voice showed the strain 
he was under; his sleepless eyes were keen with 
excitement. 

Don stopped only to tell the developments to Ruth 
and her father at the gate. Ruth kissed him good-by 
and Sam Carter, who had hitherto been hostile to this 
courtship of his daughter by a man in uniform, patted 
him sympathetically on the shoulder. 

“Let ’s know the minute there’s any good news,” 
he urged. 

“And, Ruth, you’ll telephone Alan’s mother? She’s 
almost frantic with fear about him, you know,” were 
Don’s last words as he left them and sped over toward 
the roadster in which Admiral Walsworth, his engine 
already started, waited impatiently. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 

M ARY WALSWORTH, crouched before her 
three-tube set in the cramped and foul-smelling 
sloop-cabin, felt hope ebb out of her body as she lis¬ 
tened in vain for some answer from Alan. She re¬ 
membered how the man she was seeking in the un¬ 
answering night had once said that thereafter there 
could be no silent places in the world, that the wilder¬ 
ness itself would evermore be filled with voices, that it 
never again would be mute to the wanderer with a 
vacuum-tube. Yet she wrung her hands with helpless¬ 
ness as she sat with a disk of metal pressed against her 
ear, waiting for some word from that outer world 
which seemed to have forgotten her. All she could 
hear, in the tepid dead air of the cabin so flimsily bar¬ 
ricaded against the prowlers without, were the drunk¬ 
en shouts and oaths and the ribald minstrelsy of Sig 
Kurder’s mutinous crew. Now and then she could 
even see an evil yellow face peering in through the 
268 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 269 

narrow-latticed window, peering in and passing on 
again and leaving her with a chill creeping closer and 
closer about her heart. 

She knew, as she turned wearily back to her receiver, 
that the thing could not last much longer. She could 
recall only too vividly Kurder’s own defiant threats, 
his obscene and alcoholic advances, his sneering dis¬ 
regard for Mark Drakma and his orders. And she 
could not, in her helplessness, look for further mercy 
from that human hyena. The anxiety of the last three 
days had sharpened up into agony, an agony of fear 
that left her trembling at the sound of every step at her 
door. It could not, she remembered, as she once more 
took up the receiver on the end of its braided cord, 
last much more, for death itself would be preferable to 
such uncertainty. And as she sat there she let her 
fear-shadowed eye rest on the soiled wooden partition 
that separated her cabin from Kurder’s. Instinctively 
her glance rose to the ragged loop-hole, little bigger 
than a man’s fist, that her tormentor had deliberately 
cut there with his keyhole saw. He had claimed, with 
his coarse mockery, that it was for the purpose of 
keeping his eye on her and protecting her. But this, 
she knew, was not the truth. She had grown to hate 
that little wall-vent with its hinged covering that 


270 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


could be so quietly withdrawn, to hate the lewd and 
leering eyes behind it, the watching eyes that violated 
her privacy, the feasting eyes that so often brought a 
chill to her cringing body. 

She knew nothing of startled Department heads 
who had phoned from point to point throughout 
Washington, of the wires that began to hum with 
questions and answers, of the hurried conference at 
the White House itself, of the equally hurried confer¬ 
ence at the Navy Department, of the verifying of data 
and distances and the sudden despatch of orders, that 
would result in a keen-nosed torpedo-boat destroyer 
heading out into the Atlantic from the shore-mists that 
hung over Norfolk harbor at the same time that avia¬ 
tors with flashlights would suddenly swarm about the 
pontoons of a seaplane that would be fueled and pro¬ 
visioned and finally rise from Hampton Roads, with 
Admiral Walsworth himself strapped to his seat in 
its cock-pit as it followed the far-off line of the de¬ 
stroyer's wake, or of the determined-eyed Don Powell 
on its deck as the race toward the Bahamas was begun. 

Mary knew only that having existed, God only 
knew how, in this hell-hole for such an eternity, hav¬ 
ing thus far saved herself by strategy, by cajolery, by 
threats, and by the force of her strong young arms 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 


271 


from Sig Kurder, she was now utterly wearied of 
fighting, almost without hope. Of Alan she scarcely 
dared to think. There were times when she felt he 
had perished at the hands of Drakma, perished miser¬ 
ably for having defied that master-adventurer, else he 
would long since have come to her. Where, too, was 
her father, where was the vaunted power that his po¬ 
sition should have placed at his disposal for succoring 
her? 

Nerves frazzled, body worn to the breaking point, 
Mary Walsworth felt that she could never, never 
stand another twenty-four hours of it. She had 
reached the end of her rope. 

Even as she looked she saw the wall-vent open and 
the evil and estimative eyes rest on her couched body, 
bent above the radio-set that now seemed only a mock¬ 
ery to her. She looked away from those bloodshot 
eyes, finding the hunger in them unendurable. She 
looked away with a throaty small gasp of desperation 
—and then fell suddenly silent, with the nervous move¬ 
ment of her fingers on the tuning-dial just as suddenly 
arrested. For many miles away, in a clean and white- 
walled room on a plunging destroyer, Don Powell, 
with a uniformed officer on either side of him, sat be¬ 
fore a navy Holt transmitter and sent his voice arrow¬ 
ing out across the open Atlantic. 


272 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


“This is Don speaking to Mary and Alan,” were the 
words that vibrated through the waiting ether. “We 
are racing to your help. We are coming as fast as 
steam can carry us. So whatever happens, hold out to 
the last!” 

Mary heard that voice, and as she listened, in her 
close and tepid cabin, a new wave of hope welled up 
through her body. And others besides Mary heard it. 
Mark Drakma, lying off Little Abaco in his sea-go¬ 
ing yacht, also caught up that message, issued sudden 
commands, and swung about in his course, a more 
malignant light in his meditative eyes. And the com¬ 
mander of the battle-ship Colorado, in his floating 
fortress of thirty-two thousand tons, heading up from 
the Florida Channel, heard that call of hope and re¬ 
considered certain wirelessed despatches from the De¬ 
partment and after talking by code through the slowly- 
breaking morning light, veered about and threw the 
full force of his seven-thousand horse-power into his 
four threshing propellers. And the same message was 
heard on the seaplane winging its way eastward like a 
frigate-bird, with Admiral Walsworth’s haggard eyes 
searching the rim of the horizon once more made lucid 
and lonely by the rising sun. 

The sun mounted, and reached the zenith, and de- 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 


27S 


dined again. But still that strange race kept up. Men 
knew hunger and thirst, fatigue and frustration, hatred 
and hope, dark peril and even darker passion. But 
still these strangely diverse shapes continued to con¬ 
verge toward that outland bay that had become the 
pivot of all their world. 

The crew that manned the dirty old hulk com¬ 
manded by the unspeakable Sig Kurder was what one 
might have expected from the work they were usually 
called upon to do. They had been recruited from the 
docks of a score of seaports and were a motley collec¬ 
tion of Spaniards, mulattos, Italians and derelict 
Americans. It was only Kurder’s oft-proved ability 
to conquer any one of them with bare fists, marlin- 
spike, or whatever weapon came to hand, that insured 
his continued mastery over them. He never went for¬ 
ward into their quarters after dark without being 
armed, and even in his daytime dealings with them 
his ferret eyes were always keenly alert for treachery. 
If Mary Walsworth had learned to fear Kurder, she 
had also come to fear his subordinates. There was 
even an element of safety for her in the fact that the 
burly captain had marked her for his own and had 
bade the others in no uncertain tones to leave her alone. 

But now Kurder’s crew, fired with the vitriolic 


274 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


spirits to which he was almost forced to give them 
limited access, was becoming more unruly than ever. 
From the forecastle-head came oaths and shouts signi¬ 
fying a renewal of the fighting and brawling among 
the drunken sailors. The outcries grew even more 
violent than ever. So that finally Kurder, abandon¬ 
ing for the time being his gloating torture of Mary, 
strode out of his cabin and forward in the direction of 
his men’s quarters. His massive brow was cloudy 
with anger, for there were signs of mutiny in the air, 
signs that had been growing more ominous for several 
days. He had set his crew to work upon the decks. 
Under the time-honored sailors’ prerogative of knock¬ 
ing off at intervals for coffee, which in the case of 
this particular crew meant grog also, they had re¬ 
treated to the forecastle and had not come forth again 
at the expiration of the regulation fifteen minutes. 
Moreover, they showed no signs of returning to their 
toil. And so Kurder advanced toward the dark door 
of the stuffy compartment in which his men bunked, 
stopping for a second at the steam windless and picking 
up the stout windlass-bar as a precautionary measure. 

For an instant he stood in the doorway, his shirt 
open and exposing his hairy chest, his ugly face 
screwed up into an expression of rage as he grasped 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 


275 

the situation. In the semi-light his men were crouched 
on their haunches, brawling, swearing, shouting, as 
one of their number cast a pair of ancient dice upon 
the circular spot on the floor around which they were 
clustered. 

“What the hell goes on here!” roared Kurder in 
his booming voice, striding among them. “Get out of 
this on to the deck, lively now!” 

But the men were not disposed to abandon their 
sport so easily. The squat, fat carpenter, who stood 
on the outer fringe of the circle and who was much 
the worse for the liquor he was holding, came close 
to the captain and thrust his weak unshaven chin as 
far up toward Kurder’s face as it would reach. 

“We’re seein’ who gits the gal, Captain,” he leered. 
“You needn’t think you’re goin’ to git her all by your¬ 
self so easy.” 

“What!” shouted Kurder. “You damned swine 
dare to—” And he swung his great fist through the 
air and caught the carpenter flush upon the latter’s 
chin, knocking him into the other corner of the com¬ 
partment as if he were a sack of flour tossed into the 
hold of a ship by a giant stevedore. 

This seemed to be the prearranged signal for which 
Kurder’s worthies had been waiting. For instantly 


276 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


they abandoned their game and swung into action. It 
was an eruption of activity, not unlike that following 
upon a horse’s sneeze into a nose-bag. A swarthy 
Italian leapt at Kurder’s back and was instantly swung 
by the husky captain over his head to land crookedly 
upon the floor, his leg twisted cruelly under him. And 
as the others, yelling and cursing, rushed to the attack, 
Kurder swung his windlass-bar like a baseball player 
knocking innumerable homeruns, but generally with 
a human victim at the other end of the hard iron. 

The sound of that combat even crept in to Mary, 
crouching in her cabin. It filled her with renewed 
alarm. But it strengthened her also in her resolution 
that she would escape from this floating hell, escape 
at any cost. And here, apparently, was her chance, 
with the entire personnel of the vessel intent upon the 
battle. 

She hastened to her cabin-door and peered anxiously 
out. It was as she had hoped. The deck was clear. 
Just outside the forecastle door, lay an unconscious 
man, blood issuing from a gash in his head. 

Stealthily and fleetly she slipped over to the side of 
the sloop, where the unclean dinghy rocked against 
the unclean hull-planks. She struggled with unsteady 
fingers at the knots in the frayed ropes that bound the 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 


277 


small boat. Her finger-nails were broken and bleeding 
during the few seconds that seemed hours to her as she 
fought to free the craft, but at last it was loose, and, 
making sure that she was still unobserved, she heaved 
against its side and pushed it overboard. With a 
swashing of water it hit the surface of the deep, and 
she silently thanked God that it had landed right-side 
up and with the stubby oars still undisturbed in its 
bottom. Then, almost afraid to look down into the 
cruel, indigo-blue ocean beneath her, she clambered to 
the top of the low rail and flung herself overboard. » 

She thought she was never coming to the surface 
of the water, for her clothing proved a dead weight, 
and, good swimmer that she was, it was a struggle 
upward. But at last she glimpsed the placid blue sky 
above her again and looked anxiously around for the 
boat. It was bobbing about, only a few feet from her, 
and, seizing its side, it was the work of only an instant 
to draw herself into the boat. Then she took up the 
battered oars, inserted them into their rowlocks, and 
definitely and hurriedly directed her course away from 
the hulk rocking so grossly above her. From the bow 
still came the noise of brawling, and apparently as yet 
her flight was unobserved. 

Mary pulled away lustily, terror lending strength to 


278 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

her lithe arms, with no thought of direction or des¬ 
tination, except that by some miraculous chance fate 
might lead her eventually to the island upon which 
Alan, if still alive, was marooned. She drew off into 
the open Atlantic, for days smooth as a mill-pond, but 
now ruffled with a rising wind. She plied her ears 
swiftly, conscious only that she was escaping from that 
floating hell, careless of where she fared and what she 
faced. Her eyes lighted upon a square tin box at her 
feet, battered but still water-proof. This, she knew, 
contained food, enough to sustain her for two or three 
days. And there was also a compass in the bottom of 
the boat, an ancient compass whose needle wabbled as 
she rowed and probably was inaccurate. Still it would 
be of some assistance. And so, for the first time in 
many days, Mary Walsworth smiled. 

For fifteen or twenty minutes she rowed. The boat 
was sluggish and heavy and hard for even a man to 
manage, and there was little strength left in Mary’s 
arms. Grit alone was driving her on. But she saw the 
distance widen between her and the heaving hull. A 
quarter of a mile, then a half, finally lay between her 
and her captors. Then she was forced for a brief 
interval to rest so that she might ease the ache in her 
tortured arms and the barbed agony of breathlessness 
in her throat. 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 


279 

As she heaved slowly up and down there on the long 
and oily swell, the figure that had been lying uncon¬ 
scious just outside the forecastle door of Kurder’s 
prisonship moved slightly and then slowly and in 
wabbly fashion struggled to its feet. And as the man, 
the thick-lipped Spanish boatswain of the craft, gazed 
around the world it still went reeling before his half- 
opened eyes. But he was able to see things at a dis¬ 
tance better than those close by. Gazing, he glimpsed 
the lone slender girl in the open boat out in the sun¬ 
drenched sea. For a moment he thought he was see¬ 
ing a ghost. Then his battered brain took in what was 
happening, that the prize for which he had received 
nearly his death-blow was fleeing beyond his grasp. 
His legs were galvanized into steadiness and he lurched 
into the forecastle, shouting the alarm as he advanced 
upon the bruised but still battling crew. 

“She is run away! She is run away!” roared that 
sea-going Paul Revere. 

Instantly the fighters dropped their fists and stood 
as if rooted to the spot. Kurder, windlass-bar still 
grasped tightly in his hairy arms, but his swarthy face 
now sweating, red, bruised, and one shoulder of his 
begrimed flannel shirt showing a steadily spreading 
red stain where a flung knife had cut a glancing gash. 


280 the story without a name 


snarled out an oath and, once more the leader in the 
sudden emergency, bellowed, “Hoist the sails.” The 
crew obeyed and scurried out of the disordered fore¬ 
castle to the ropes. 

Mary Walsworth’s hopeful heart sank as she saw a 
sail of the Kurder craft rise briskly to the peak of the 
mast and realized her flight had been discovered. 
Nevertheless, as the ship began to gain headway be¬ 
fore the smart wind toward her, she bent again to her 
rowing and dug her stubby oars into the waster with 
the fierceness of despair. 

But it was an uneven race. In all too short a time 
the sloop was but twenty yards behind her, and her 
efforts were becoming very feeble as exhaustion seized 
her. Her arms were nearly numb and she knew that 
she would faint if she continued much longer at the 
unequal struggle. Her captors realized it too, lining 
the rails, ragged and half-clad figures who jostled one 
another and fought and laughed great derisive laughs 
that came over the water to her at her weak efforts 
with the oars. 

And now Kurder, standing on the bridge, with a 
sneering smile upon his thick lips, decided to inject 
some cruel sport into the chase. If the truth be 
known, he had been getting rather the worst of it in 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 


28l 


the forecastle fight when the warning cry of the 
wounded boatswain had called off the wolves that had 
beset him so closely. In another moment he would 
have been down and probably annihilated. He was 
not afraid of his crew, but he was worried over the 
fact that they might lose their fear of him. And he 
was disposed to do something to appease them, even 
at the sacrifice of his own gross appetite. 

And so, from the bridge, he ordered the sail down, 
and when, wondering and grumbling not a little, the 
men obeyed him and the ship was again still upon the 
deep, he yelled encouragingly: “Now swim for her! 
And let her go to the first bird who reaches her!” 

“Swim for her!” yelled half a dozen other lusty 
throats, the idea appealing to them at once. Shoes 
and shirts were cast aside by those lucky enough to 
possess them. And the next moment they were diving 
from the rail, ugly, sprawling creatures, like a flock 
of ungainly Aleutian seals taking to the sea. 

The girl could see the bobbing heads, dark and 
tousled, advancing upon her across the short span of 
safety that kept her from their clutches. She could 
hear the raucous shouts of the swimmers as they raced 
stroke by stroke toward her slowly circling craft. She 
could even see a leer of triumph on one hairy yellow 


282 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


face as it forged closer, spitting sea water from thick 
lips as it came. She could see a hairy brown arm 
reach up out of the floating blue and clamp itself on 
the stern-board of her dinghy. She could see the 
dripping heavy-muscled body heaving itself up, 
grunting, into the boat. And as she did so she turned, 
with a deep breath and then a little choked cry, to fling 
herself into the sea with the sudden resolve of never 
coming up again. 

But the appropriating brown claw cheated her even 
of this relief, for it caught at her and held her fast be¬ 
fore she could spring. She was held down, struggling 
and almost weeping, as a second sea-soaked figure 
swung up over the stem, a second figure who leered 
victoriously and snarled, “Thought you’d beat it, hey? 
Well, nothin’ doin! It’s back to the mines fer you!” 

Amid shouts and laughter from the surrounding 
bobbing heads, he took up the oars and turned back 
toward the sloop. The other swimmers turned with 
them and swam easily alongside, exchanging ribald 
banter with the two men in the boat, one rowing and 
the other keeping his two great paws firmly fastened 
upon Mary’s shoulder. 

Kurder waited, narrow-eyed, at the head of the 
rude sea-ladder that had been swung over the side as 


THE RACE TO THE RESCUE 283 

Mary’s two captors half pushed, half carried her up to 
the deck. Then the others came swarming up after 
her, and she was soon the center of mulling bodies and 
contentious voices arguing and haggling over her, as 
though she were something to be tom to pieces be¬ 
tween them. She felt coarse hands tug and pull at her 
bruised white body, tear away portions of her clothing. 

Her head was swimming, and she wondered in 
horror if she were about to lose consciousness. 
Through a deepening mist she saw them crowd and 
shoulder around her. And through that narrowing 
circle she was vaguely aware of the towering Kurder 
elbowing his way toward her. 

“Git away, you rats!” he roared, taking courage 
from a deeper portion of his own rum and determined 
that this beautiful prize should be his alone. In one 
hand he held a revolver, and, as his men, shouting and 
protesting, drew back, he seized the girl’s drooping 
body in his other arm and turned and shouted to his 
men* 

What He said to that wolfish crew she scarcely 
knew, she scarcely cared. But his words brought a 
shout of ribald laughter from their crowding and ani¬ 
mal-like faces, a leer about loose lips that looked more 
wolfish with thwarted desire. And the next moment 


284 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

she was dimly conscious of being caught up in huge 
hairy arms and being carried bodily back to the cabin, 
with men falling away on either side of their leader, 
who strode aft with the body that looked fragile and 
white beside the bronzed arms encircling it. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


AT THE MERCY OF THE DEEP 

HEN the first spasm of fury and excitement 



VV that had driven Alan Holt to sea to the rescue 
of Mary W alsworth, after receiving her frantic mes¬ 
sage over the radio, had somewhat abated, he was 
able to compose his mind and take account of the situa¬ 
tion. He realized that matters were desperate in the 
extreme. He was afloat in the inky darkness on a 
crude craft that might not survive an hour in waters 
that were fast becoming ruffled by the westerly wind 
that had started to blow with the coming of twilight. 
Already the waves were lapping over the sides of his 
skimpy craft until his body was thoroughly drenched 
with sea and spray. And even if it were not indeed 
the last thing he would have considered, he could not 
now return to the doubtful haven of his desert cay, 
for Dan Potter would be coming home soon and 
Dolores would immediately begin her recital to him 


285 


286 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


of the alleged wrongs she had suffered at the hands 
of Alan and the jealous derelict’s vengeance would 
immediately descend upon the young inventor. 

And so Alan, ceasing his frantic paddling with the 
shovel that served as his ineffective means of propul¬ 
sion, began now sensibly to thrust it into the water 
with long steady strokes that would have secured the 
maximum of locomotion out of his rude craft if he 
could have told in what direction he should be head¬ 
ing. It would take the coming of dawn, eight hours 
away, to tell him that. Meantime he must put as 
great a distance as possible between himself and Jack- 
Ketch Cay. 

For an hour he paddled lustily, his tired arms fairly 
crying out their pain but doggedly forced by his will 
to do his tired brain’s bidding. The rising wind 
whistled about him in the bleak darkness, and the sea 
increased by the minute in roughness, swinging his im¬ 
provised catamaran about on its surface like a cork 
as it rode the waves as best it could. During the first 
hour of this strange and seemingly hopeless voyage 
through the dark void, Alan could hear no sound save 
the splashing of his “oar” against the waves and the 
occasional whistling of the squally wind as its velocity 
increased for five minutes or more and then died 


AT THE MERCY OF THE DEEP 287 


away, only to become more violent again. But at the 
end of that time he became uneasily aware that he 
was not alone in that region of the Atlantic. To the 
southeast he could hear the crunching sound, growing 
more distinct, of the bow of some vessel as it rose and 
fell in its progress through the choppy sea. And that 
it was some out of the ordinary sort of craft seemed 
to be evidenced by the fact that no lights were visible,, 
though the sound of its coming was now loud enough 
so that the usual red and green running bow signals 
should have loomed into view. 

Alan, whose weary face had lighted with hope at 
this knowledge of approaching human beings and who 
had been about to use his fast fading strength in the 
effort to hail them and enlist them in his cause, be¬ 
came wary. Mark Drakma seemed to rule that part 
of the ocean, and these were possibly some of his men 
bound on some nefarious errand or other. It might 
even be the sloop that bore the tortured Mary. But he 
did not esteem this likely, for such a large ship would 
by this time have heaved its dark hulk into view, lights 
or no lights. It was evidently some smaller vessel. 

Then, pulling his wits together, he decided that the 
newcomer might very well be Dan Potter and his 
worthies homeward-bound from their brief excursion, 
as Dolores had threatened. 


288 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


As the oncoming craft finally did come into sight in 
the darkness, Alan’s disappointment and fear were con¬ 
firmed. In its shadowy outline he recognized the small 
sloop that had been unloading cases of contraband 
liquor at Potter’s pier only two days previously. Now; 
it was returning with another consignment of Nassau 
rum, and Drakma’s viceroy of Jack-Ketch Cay was 
undoubtedly aboard. 

Here was emphatically a time for caution. Abruptly 
Alan ceased paddling and lay down prone upon his 
home-made catamaran, allowing the waves to wash un¬ 
comfortably over his body. If Potter caught sight of 
him, he knew that he would be dealt with summarily if 
not actually shot on sight. He could not hope to 
prevail over the odds offered by the ex-Harvardian 
and his thug crew. He must make himself as difficult 
to see as possible and trust the rest to fate. 

And so he waited breathlessly, as the sloop, cleaving 
the waves swiftly, taking into consideration its awk¬ 
ward lines, before the brisk breeze, bore down seem¬ 
ingly directly toward him. Ten minutes of suspense 
followed, during which the anxious Alan hardly dared 
breathe and the sailboat, its shape becoming ever more 
distinct as it approached, came nearer. Raising his 
head cautiously, he could even make out the burly form 


AT THE MERCY OF THE DEEP 289 


of Potter himself, in white, standing, with folded arms 
and widely spread legs, on the unlighted bridge be¬ 
side the sweatered brute in charge. 

When they were passing him, not twenty yards 
away, Potter suddenly sang out, “What’s that on the 
starboard bow, lookout, eh? Are you asleep, man?” 

Alan made out that there was a third member of 
the crew on duty forward in the sloop, scanning the 
sea, and his heart sank. But the lookout had evidently 
been remiss, for, after a moment of confusion, a 
rough voice yelled back toward the bridge, “Only a 
floatin’ barrel, sir. I saw it before, but we’re goin* 
to clear it all right,” 

“Sure, are you?” insisted Potter. 

“Sure—I got eyes,” confirmed the lookout sullenly. 

Potter walked to the starboard side of the bridge, 
still a bit uncertain, and Alan dug his head into his 
raft and lay like death. And then the danger passed, 
and, lifting his head gingerly and looking back and to 
the right, Alan gratefully saw the sloop sailing on into 
the gloom, leaving him once more to the mercy of 
the deep. 

Though Dolores would tell her master her colorful 
tale that night, it would be morning, Alan felt, before 
Potter would venture forth in pursuit of him, for 


290 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


seeking him in this Stygian darkness was like searching 
for the proverbial needle in the haystack. Having 
miraculously avoided this fateful meeting on the deep, 
he was for a few hours safe from this source of 
danger. 

When he considered it wise, he once more began 
manipulating his semi-effective shovel and once more 
moved forward, his tired muscles profiting by the un¬ 
expected surcease from toil that they had enjoyed. 
For another hour he propelled his strange craft, for 
another hour of uncertainty and blind hope. Then he 
noticed that a danger even more urgent and ominous 
than the crossing of his path by Potter’s sloop 
threatened. 

His catamaran was developing unsteadiness, and he 
saw, to his dismay, that there was a decided list in the 
low-hanging craft to port. Sliding over to that side he 
thrust his arm into the water and around the empty 
gasoline can that served as a sponson, supporting the 
rudely laid boards on which he lay. Feeling around 
the can with hooked fingers he found that there was 
indeed a tiny hole through which the salt water was 
finding access, a hole that was immediately made 
larger by his searching finger. The gasoline can, old 
and rusty, had been unable to endure the buffeting he 


AT THE MERCY OF THE DEEP 291 

and the waves had subjected it to. There was only 
one thing to do. Tearing a generous section from his 
already decimated shirt, he pushed it into the hole. 
For a while this seemed to serve, but then the list in¬ 
creased again, and more of Alan's clothing was sacri¬ 
ficed for emergency caulking, until the young inventor 
was practically nude down to his waist-line. 

But he saw to his satisfaction that he was, in spite 
of everything, going forward. He was alive and 
afloat. And, after what seemed a night that would 
go on for ever, a tiny bright spot appeared in the east 
ahead of him, and some time afterward a red tropical 
sun started slowly to rise. With the sun he discovered 
to his utter delight that some uncannily inspired sixth 
sense had led him in the right direction. For in front 
of him and a little to the right was a tiny tip on the 
horizon that might be, that must be, the top of a mast, 
the mast of Kurder’s hellship on which Mary Wals- 
worth was confined. 

And as the sun rose higher, Alan Holt, poised on 
his precarious and wave-tossed craft, fought his way 
stroke by stroke toward the vaguely defined mast¬ 
heads that seemed to recede as he advanced. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


AT THE END OF THE RAGE 

H AD those wolfish eyes that followed Kurder and 
his captive through the narrow cabin door been 
less intent on the immediate action before them they 
might have observed a more remote and a seemingly 
more trivial movement far over their battered ship’s- 
rail. They might have detected a vague spot on the 
face of the sea, a vague spot that moved doggedly on 
and on, that moved determinedly, even though it moved 
slowly. And on the sky-line to the west, had they 
been less interested in the drama behind the closed 
cabin-door, they might have detected a sharp-nosed 
shadow, of battle-ship gray, as narrow-ribbed and 
lean as a greyhound, throwing up a double scimitar of 
foam where her pointed cutwater knifed onward 
through the long and oily swells, leaving a low line of 
smoke behind her as a pursuing dragon-fly of metal 
and wood and linen crept up on her in that three-sided 
flight. 

293 



s 

I 

8 


K 

Vi 

$ 

8 


ADMIRAL WALSWORTH WELCOMES MARY AND ALAN ON HIS FLAGSHIP. 














AT THE END OF THE RACE 


293 


Alan, burned by the sun and wet with the sea, forced 
on his ludicrous little hand-made craft, like a rider 
forcing on a broken and winded mount. He no longer 
looked at the shark, playing in the waters about him. 
His jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on a rocking 
hull and an untidy tower of rigging. His heart beat 
faster as he forged closer, dull paddle-stroke by pad¬ 
dle-stroke. Yet a wave of nausea swept through him 
as he caught the first sounds of the drunken shouts 
and singing aboard the slatternly boat where no one, 
as yet, showed any interest in his approach. He felt, 
with a sudden sinking of the heart, that he was al¬ 
ready too late. 

But his pulse quickened again, in a grim fever of 
purpose, as he glided in alongside the barnacled and 
weather-bleached hull. He hesitated only long enough 
to tie his precious triangulator to a rusty rudder- 
chain. Then he clambered quietly but quickly aboard. 

He thought, as he slid as noiseless as a snake over 
the stained bulwarks, that he was to board the boat 
quite unseen by his enemies. But as he tumbled to the 
deck in the shadow of the chart-house he found him¬ 
self face to face with a red-skinned sailor placidly cut¬ 
ting the edges from a ragged disk of tobacco. The 
knife with which he was cutting this tobacco was long 
and bright and shining. 


294 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


His grip on that knife, as he glanced up and let his 
startled eye rest on the still crouching figure of the 
newcomer, promptly shifted and tightened. And as 
Alan’s eye swept the blowsy and brute-like face he 
realized there was time for neither argument nor hesi¬ 
tation. Still crouching, his movement was one of cat¬ 
like quickness as he sprang for the red-faced man with 
the knife. 

The tattooed knife-arm raised and descended, strik- 
ing against bleached wood as Alan twisted aside and 
kicked the clustered fingers about the heavy handle, 
kicked until the shining blade went cluttering along 
the deck-boards. Then the two men locked together, 
straining and grunting and gasping as they engaged in 
that quiet but ferocious struggle, rolling about the 
narrow deckway as throttling fingers felt for pant¬ 
ing throat, and slender body and heavy body twisted 
and writhed together for that final clutch which was 
to end the fight. But neither seemed to have the 
power to dictate that end. 

It was not until they rolled against a chain-coil that 
Alan saw his chance. Then, lifting his enemy’s torso 
from the deck-boards, he brought the lolling head 
sharply down against the coiled metal links. He could 
feel, a moment later, the great arms relax about his 


AT THE END OF THE RACE 


295 


body and the stunned bulk of flesh sink limply along 
the deck. He was rising to his feet, studying the 
momentarily passive face, listening to the animal-like 
groan that was coming from between the loose lips, 
when still another sound smote on his ears. 

That sound was the cry of a woman. It was a 
scream, thin and high-pitched, sharpened with some 
final terror that brought a curdle to his blood. And as 
he heard it he sprang to his feet, his hand reaching 
for the automatic in his belt-holster. 

Even as he drew his weapon he heard the chorus of 
shouts and oaths which told him he had been seen by 
the crew scattered about the open deck. A knife was 
flung through the air, but he dodged it as it went 
glimmering past and pinged into the wood behind him. 
A revolver barked from behind a capstan and a bullet 
went whining close over his head. A denim-clad 
Goliath with a bared bronze chest swung down on 
him with a poised crow-bar, but Alan let his own 
weapon bark out this time and the bar of iron dropped 
from the shattered fingers. And before they could re¬ 
cover themselves and mass themselves for a common 
attack he charged into their midst, clubbing them aside 
with the butt of his automatic and fighting his way 
through their scattered line. 


296 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

He heard the woman’s screams repeated as he ran 
toward the cabin from which it rose. But when he 
got to that cabin he found the door locked. From 
within he could hear the sound of a struggle—and he 
knew sickeningly enough what that struggle meant. 
So he pressed close in against the soiled door and, 
aiming downward, put first one bullet and then an¬ 
other through the impeding lock-bolt. 

He was able, the next moment, to shoulder the re¬ 
leased door in. And as he did so. he saw the mottled 
and blood-streaked face of Sig Kurder bent over the 
white and inert face of Mary Walsworth. He could 
see the horror in her face as with the last of her 
strength she sought to beat back the evil-eyed giant so 
grimly intent on subduing her. He could see where 
she had sunk her teeth into the great hairy hand 
pressed over her mouth, so that the whiteness of her 
skin, here and there, was splashed with a runnel of 
red, as they tottered and swayed in the midst of 
broken glass and wood and metal. 

Alan could never quite remember just how or when 
that final combat with Sig Kurder began. He was 
conscious only of something snapping, sharp as the 
break of an arrow-string, at the back of his brain. He 
recalled only that he stood face to face with something 


AT THE END OF THE RACE 


297 


.as brutal as brute-life as it was once lived in its paleo¬ 
lithic slime. He knew only that the woman he loved 
lay pallid and imperiled in the arms of a drink-sodden 
animal who sought to possess her. And that was 
enough. 

The feral spark exploded and he was once more a 
cave-man battling for his own. He found himself 
fighting with the fury of a tigress robbed of its young. 
He wondered afterward, why he did not put a bullet 
through the purple temple pressed so close to his own 
as they threshed and lurched their way about the lit¬ 
tered cabin. But that, apparently, would have made 
too brief the battle in which he felt the need to ease 
his soul of all the souring acids of injustice that had 
been burning there. That would have left the thing 
too brief and too insubstantial to carry his corroding 
streams of hatred. He took a mad and adamitic joy 
in feeling the thump of clenched bone against flaccid 
flesh, in catching the grunts of pain from the loose 
druling mouth, in seeing the look of glazed wonder 
that crept into the covinous yellow eyes as the final 
blows took the last glimmer of power from the thick- 
sinewed arms so darkened with wind and weather and 
so repulsively bristled with their pale and pig-like 
hairs. 


298 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


He stood above the huddled figure lying on its side, 
wondering why he was without the will to stamp out 
its final spark of life, awakening to the fact that Mary 
herself was clinging to his arm and doing her best to 
drag him away from an impending murder that would 
only cloud what remained of their lives with regret. 

He stared at her, with only half-comprehending 
eyes, as her pleading sobs fell on his ears and her 
hands clung to his sweat-stained arm. He paid little 
attention to the words she was speaking, for the wine 
of violence still ran strong in his veins. 

He emerged from that mist of unreality only when 
a pistol-shot echoed through the room and a bullet 
buried itself in the wooden wall behind him. And it 
dawned on him that he was not yet as victorious as he 
had dreamed. 

The immediate reinforcements that arrived with a 
rush for Sig Kurder that moment consisted of a fat 
and slatternly ship’s cook, who, still half-dazed with 
liquor and the unexpected fray, catapulted himself in¬ 
to the cabin and pounced upon the two struggling* 
men. Fortunately the galley-man was in no condition 
to fight and was somewhat of a coward besides. Con¬ 
tenting himself for a few active seconds to tugging 
away lustily at Alan’s arms as they throttled Kurder’s 


AT THE END OF THE RACE 


299 


bull-like throat and seeing that his efforts were in 
vain, he suddenly rose and employed strategy. It was 
Mary who saw what the brute intended doing, and she 
flung her bruised body upon him with all her might. 
He thrust her aside with an oath and, ripping a page 
from the log-book that lay on the cabin table, he fished 
a match from his greasy dungarees and set it afire. 
Then, with the gleam of hate in his eyes, he pushed 
the blazing paper toward Alan’s encircling arms. 

But the inventor was ready for him. No sooner did 
the flaming danger approach than he kicked out 
sharply with his free leg and knocked the fire from 
the unsteady arm of the cook. It landed, as if he had 
actually intended to place it there, upon the soiled 
red table-cloth still half covering the overturned cabin- 
table, and set it ablaze at once. Kurder, with his half- 
closed and wateiy; eyes, saw the fiery portent and 
made one last bid for freedom. Alan desperately dug 
the ruffian’s head into the cabin floor and shouted to 
Mary, half senseless on the floor, to put out the fire. 
But it had already gained too much headway to be 
checked. 

But now other members of Kurder’s crew had be¬ 
come aware that all was not well in the cabin to which 
their leader had rushed his fair prey after cheating 


3 oo THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

them out of the human reward for their energies. 
The sounds of the struggle had come out to them and 
they had arrived with a rush, one of them firing as he 
came, out of sheer excitement. 

And as they saw the blazing cabin and the two men 
struggling in the cabin and the cook, felled by a chair 
swung through the air by Mary, who had recovered 
her senses and an upright position in time to help her 
confederate, one of them cried, “He’s set the ship 
afire, damn him!” And the cry was more horror than 
rage. 

Looking up, Alan saw the circle of evil faces clus¬ 
tered about the open doorway. He saw the intent eyes 
watching him and the white-shouldered woman clingr 
ing to his arm. The look on those lawless faces dis¬ 
turbed him, prompted him to leap back for his forgot¬ 
ten automatic and thrust Mary behind his shielding 
body. At the same time that his lips hardened with 
decision and his finger stiffened on the trigger he 
caught the sound of a shout, repeated and passed 
along by the ragged remnant crew still out there t be¬ 
side the rail. 

“Drakma!” was the cry. “That’s Drakma’s boat 
coming!” 

He saw the shadowy group about his doorway turn. 


AT THE END OF THE RACE 


301 


“And there’s a boat to the west,” was the next cry, 
“a boat coming hell-bent for leather!” 

The doorway group was no longer in sight. And 
Alan, emerging from his apathy, saw that the moment 
for action had returned. 

He caught Mary by the hand and led her out 
through the blinding smoke to the quarter where the 
dinghy still rocked against the hull-planks. Unseen 
by the eyes staring at the second shadow of battleship- 
gray crowding down on them over the long swells of 
cobalt blue that broke into foam before the racing cut¬ 
waters, he dropped the almost helpless girl into the 
dinghy and clambered overboard after her. He 
stopped only long enough to snatch his triangulator 
from the anchor-chain where it swayed. Then he 
caught up the oars and rowed with all the strength 
that remained with him. 

It was a cry from Mary that awakened him from 

that second fury of effort. 

“Alan!” she cried. “Look at that other boat! Its 
not Drakma’s. It’s a destroyer. And there’s a plane 
in the air!” 

Alan let the oars fall from his hands. He stared 
about, his face twisted up with the strong light. 

“That plane’s heading straight for Drakma’s 


302 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

yacht,” he cried out in a voice vibrant with hope. “And 
that looks like a cruiser coming up. But the plane’ll 
get him first!” 

“Thank God, I can see our flag!” gasped Mary, 
with her straining eyes bent on the gray mass drifting 
toward them. But she was startled by a cry from Alan 
as he caught up the oars again. 

Drakma s heading for us!” she heard her com¬ 
panion call out. “He intends to run us down! See, 
his men are rifling at the plane! They’re trying to 
shoot it down or hold it off. He’s playing devil to the 
last! But, O God, he’ll pay for that!” 

He had no further breath left for speech. He was 
once more struggling with the oars. 

Lie flat! he suddenly called out. “They may try 
to shoot as they come!” 

But they did not come. For a small dark object, 
drooping from the hovering plane, fell like a plummet 
on the polished deck of the racing yacht. There was a 
deafening report, a rending of the super-structure, a 
shower of splintered wood and metal through the air. 
The boat, long and lean like an otter, lurched and 
veered about like a mallard with a broken wing. A 
bearded and gorilla-like figure, clad in spotless white 
duck, still leaned over the burnished rail as it drifted 


AT THE END OF THE RACE 


303 


by the helpless dinghy tossing on the open sea. De¬ 
liberately that figure raised one thick arm and pointed 
it toward the castaways crouched in the small boat 
beneath him. The sun flashed on the thing of metal 
clasped in his fingers. 

But before those fingers could move a carbine 
barked out from the deck of the destroyer and the 
gorilla-like figure in spotless white crumpled down 
behind the burnished rail, with a widening pool of red 
spotting the slope of the bone-white deck-boards. 

“We’re saved!” gasped Alan in a voice weak with 
fatigue and hunger and joy as he lurched forward and 
fell beside the half-clad body of the girl. 

And when they found him, still in that coma of 
utter weariness, they noticed that one arm lay across 
the sea-case of his precious triangulator and the other 
across the passive but still breathing body of Mary 
Walsworth. . . . 


CHAPTER XXV 


REWARDS 

W HEN, two hours later, aboard the rescuing bat¬ 
tle-ship, Alan Holt felt fresh clothing about 
his bruised body and the tug of black coffee on his 
tired heart-strings, he was once more able to sit up 
and take an interest in life, and life at that moment 
seemed to promise something very wonderful for him. 
His tired face twisted into a smile. He rose from the 
table before which he had been sitting in the com¬ 
mander’s quarters and, striding over to the seat under¬ 
neath the port-hole on the other side of the room, 
kneeled on its cushions, and peered out through the 
port-hole, upon the now glassy sea. They were mov¬ 
ing away from the scene of his last battle with Sig 
Kurder, a scene of destruction and desolation. He 
could see the wreck of Drakma’s yacht, and, even as 
he gazed, the blazing Kurder sloop reared bow up¬ 
ward and sank with a great hissing of embers and 
304 


REWARDS 


305 


clouds of steam into the sea. Alan rested there a mo¬ 
ment and then resumed his seat by the table. 

A knock sounded at the door. When he bade his 
visitor enter. Admiral Walsworth stepped into the 
commander’s quarters and slowly closed the door be¬ 
hind him. Worry had lifted from the weathered face 
of the naval man, and it was quite evident that his 
feelings toward Alan were somewhat different from 
what they had been. He was almost pathetically anx¬ 
ious to placate the young man now, to prove that he 
was his friend. And, in doing so, he adopted a man¬ 
ner that awkwardly attempted to be humorous, to 
conceal his embarrassment. 

“Something has happened that is the one cloud on 
what should have been a perfect day,” the older man 
meditatively observed, struggling between a smile and 
a simulated frown. 

“Why, what’s that?” asked Allan, long since willing 
to forget and forgive. He pushed away the plate of 
bacon and eggs he had just emptied and looked a little 
wryly at the blue boatswain’s shirt, many times too 
large for him, that was covering his sunburnt back 
and chest. 

“Why, it’s that young friend of yours, young Don 
Powell,” the admiral explained. “He’s just been play- 


306 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

in g ducks and drakes with service orders. And I 
suppose they’ll have to court-martial the scoundrel for 
it.” 

What has Don done?” asked Alan, looking to see 
if there was still more coffee in the commander’s sil¬ 
ver-scrolled pot. 

“Well, first he asked permission to send a radio 
message to your mother to say that you were safe.” 

“And I hope he did it.” 

“Certainly. That was perfectly all right. But then 
the young upstart tried to bribe the radio officer to 
let him broadcast a message back to some Virginia 
girl he speaks of as Miss Carter. He wanted to break 
the news to her, he said; and nothing slower than radio 
would do. This is an American battle-ship, sir, and 
the operator quite naturally refused. And when he 
was momentarily absent from his wireless room, 
young Powell defied law and order by violating that 
station and doing the broadcasting on his own hook. 
And it will be a nice mix-up, when the Department at 
Washington gets over trying to digest that young 
outlaw’s crazy love message.” 

Alan’s smile, though a weary one, was not without 
its mirth and appreciation of Don’s ingenuity. The 
sight of his chum among those assisting Maty; and him 


REWARDS 


307 


aboard the man-of-war had been like a welcoming' 
hand from another world, and Don’s bear-like hug 
had brought a choke to his throat. 

“But that wasn’t what I came in here to talk to you 
about—er—Alan,” the admiral cleared his throat and 
continued in a not too happy voice. “I guess you 
think I’ve given you rather a rough deal, and you’re 
right. We old codgers in the service get crusty and 
hard-boiled, you know, and we’re instinctively sus¬ 
picious of youth, particularly youthful inventors. 
When you first told my daughter about your ‘death- 
ray’ device back there in the car coming from Latham 
after our accident, I simply thought you were an¬ 
other crack-brained mechanic taking advantage of an 
unfortunate occurrence to peddle some money-making 
scheme. We get at least a dozen of them every day* 
in my branch of the Department. You had no stand¬ 
ing as a scientist, you know, and even when my col¬ 
leagues on the Board approved your invention and 
authorized the construction of the towers and the en¬ 
listing of your services, I rather pooh-poohed it. I 
admit it now.” 

Alan sat silent, waiting for the older man to go on. 

“I admit also that I was influenced in my actions 
somewhat by a woman to whom I am reluctant to re- 


3°8 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


fer,” continued the admiral. “Claire Lacasse was that 
woman. My relations with that lady, I tell you upon 
my honor, were quite proper, but she did for a time 
possess an undue influence over me. She was—and 
is—a singularly attractive woman. But I’ve found 
her, thanks to our friend, Sergeant Powell, who has 
been of untold assistance to me in clearing up this 
whole matter, something worse than an impostor. She 
is a thoroughly bad woman, Drakma’s most trusted 
and most efficient agent. Thank heaven she’s safely 
in custody at this moment. She not only beguiled me 
into suspecting that you were a traitor to your coun¬ 
try. She nearly cost us your ‘death-ray’ machine and 
she tried to lead me into an ambush of Drakma’s that 
might have cost me my honor, if not my life. She 
made love to me with one hand, so to speak, while she 
attempted to pick my pocket with the other.” 

The admiral sighed. 

“It was a very narrow escape,” he admitted, without 
meeting Alan’s keen eye. And still again he sighed. 

“She was an extremely attractive woman,” he ob¬ 
served, a trifle nettled at the younger man’s lack of 
attention. But you don’t seem to be giving these 
weighty matters much thought. Perhaps you are still 
too weak to listen to me talk about them.” 


REWARDS 


309 


“Oh, yes, I’m all right,” replied Alan. He rose 
from his chair. Then he confessed, “But I was think¬ 
ing of another young woman—an even more attractive 
woman.” 

He smiled. 

“Do you mean my Mary?” asked the admiral 
abruptly. 

“Yes.” 

The seamed old face of the sea-fighter softened as 
he reached out for the hand of a fighter much younger 
than himself. 

“I’m afraid that was another of my mistakes, Alan,” 
he admitted. “You have been a brave lad and have 
done a most heroic and clever piece of work in rescu¬ 
ing Mary from an unspeakable fate. I can not begin 
to tell you how that has won my heart. I admit that 
at the start I watched Mary’s growing interest in you 
with very much concern. I did not approve of it, and 
I tried to break it up. Frankly, the idea of a garage- 
employee in a country ex-blacksmith shop making love 
to my daughter didn’t altogether appeal to me. It was 
foolishly snobbish of me, I suppose, but if you’re made 
that way you’re made that way. And now I know that 
you’re an entirely different kind of a chap than I took 
you for. You saved my girl for me. You both saved 


3io THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 


her and served your country—and when the president 
meets us on the Mayflower I intend to let him know to 
just what extent you served him and his people. I 
intend to see—” 

“But you approve of Mary and me loving each other, 
now ? You won’t oppose our marriage—if, of course, 
she will many me ?” interrupted the tired-faced youth 
beside the table. 

“On the contrary, I shall render you all possible sup¬ 
port in your suit.” 

“And where is Mary now?” 

“Oh, I forgot,” and the doughty admiral had a hard 
time keeping his face as grave as he wished. “She’s 
been asking for you.” 

“May I see her now ?” 

“Well, you know, modern fathers seem to have very 
little to say about such things. You may see her when¬ 
ever you like.” 

“Then I’m going to her, if you’ll pardon me. 
Admiral.” 

“You don’t have to. She’s right outside, waiting to 
come in.” 

There was a touch of sadness in the older man’s 
smile. “And when I send her in to you, I want you to 
remember that—I’m—I’m delivering into your hands 


REWARDS 


3ii 

one of the best girls who ever drew the breath of life.” 

“I know,” whispered Alan as the door closed behind 
Mary’s father. As he stood there waiting, his heart 
began to pump faster. For he was waiting, he remem¬ 
bered, for the woman he loved. 

And in a few moments the door opened and she 
came to him, came eagerly and light-footed, her 
clothes still disheveled but her eyes bright and anxious. 
Alan thought she had never looked lovelier as he held 
out his arms to her, and she glided swiftly to him. 

She leaned close to him and whispered, “Oh, Alan, 
Alan, it hardly seems true yet! We’re safe. I’m in 
your arms.” She raised her lips and kissed him pas¬ 
sionately, clinging to him as if she meant never to let 
him go. 

“I’ve been existing only for this moment, dearest,” 
he confessed. “It’s all that’s kept me alive.” 

And when, the first storm of their passion over, 
they slipped down to the commander’s softly uphol¬ 
stered seat under the port-hole, he asked, still holding 
her, “And when will you marry me, Mary?” 

“Whenever you like—and the sooner the better.” 

“And you don’t mind marrying an ordinary garage 
mechanic, when all those titled fellows and Navy chaps 
with tons of gold braid on their shoulders are waiting 
to take you from me ?” 


312 THE STORY WITHOUT A! NAME 


“I want you , Alan,” she said softly. “And, besides, 
you’re a garage man no longer. You’re a great inven¬ 
tor. I heard them talking—my father and the com¬ 
mander and the others. They said your ‘death-ray’ 
machine is bound to be the marvel of the age, that it 
will revolutionize the history of the world, and that 
your name will be famous all over the globe. They 
intend to offer you a wonderful position as a civilian 
attache of the Department. So it’s / who should be 
anxious about marrying you. When you’re such a big 
man in the world, will you be content with just the 
daughter of an old sea-dog, with just me?” 

Her voice was mockingly self-pitying, and there was 
the old mischievous smile in the pretty face that had 
smiled so seldom during the past few weeks. 

For an answer he again swept her into his arms and 
kissed her. He was holding her thus when another 
knock sounded on the door. He allowed an exclama¬ 
tion of annoyance to escape him, and she laughed hap¬ 
pily. But she forced him to open the door, despite his 
suggestion that they ignore the visitors. 

Two male faces peered in on them. They belonged 
to Don Powell and to Waldron, the energetic reporter 
from the Washington News , the keen-eyed middle- 
aged man who had first connected Drakma with the 


REWARDS 


3i3 

theft of Alan’s triangulator model after the advent of 
Alexis Christoff in Latham. 

“Are we spoiling something?” asked Don slyly. 

“You know darned well you are,” blustered Alan, 
with mock rage. 

“Well, we left you two love-birds alone for nearly 
twenty minutes, and Bill Waldron here is just about 
passing away to get his story off by radio to his paper. 
I smuggled him aboard this battle-wagon in the excite¬ 
ment, you know. I had a hunch he might come in use¬ 
ful. I’m your self-appointed press-agent, you realize, 
Alan, old boy, and I knew this story was going to have 
a happy ending.” 

“It almost didn’t,” said Alan grimly. 

“Righto! But it takes more than Drakma and his 
gang to down a pair with stuff in them such as Mary 
and you have, old man.” 

“I’ll leave you so that you can talk to Mr. Waldron,” 
offered Mary. 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” quickly interpo¬ 
lated Alan. He caught her wrist, holding her close to 
his side. “You’re in this story as much as I am.” 

“She sure is—if not more,” said Bill Waldron as he 
held out his hand and offered congratulations. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE KISS ON THE BRIDGE 

A dmiral Charles pinckney wals- 

WORTH, who had gracefully given his consent 
to the marriage of his daughter to Alan Holt, had to 
continue to yield gracefully when the discussion of 
the details of the actual ceremony came up. For his 
suggestion of a formal naval wedding, attended by 
diplomats, over-dressed .Washington dowagers, naval 
officers straight as ramrods and forming a gauntlet 
of crossed swords for the wedded pair to pass through, 
was rather lightly dismissed. Instead, the two parties 
most concerned voted for a quiet wedding at the little 
elm-shaded church in Latham where Alan and his 
mother had always worshiped. 

When the admiral, in dress uniform, walking down 
the narrow aisle of the church as if he were striding 
a chalk-line on the quarter-deck of his flag-ship, had 
delivered his radiant daughter to the keeping of her 
chosen mate, the epauletted officer slipped back into 


314 


THE KISS ON THE BRIDGE 


315 

the first row of seats in the church beside Alan’s white- 
haired mother. He looked straight ahead of him, 
straight at Mary, not even a bridal-veil concealing the 
swan-whiteness of her neck and the little halo formed 
by her severely bobbed blonde hair. As the old clergy¬ 
man droned the remainder of the wedding ceremony, 
the admiral’s eyes finally shifted to his stalwart son-in¬ 
law, or at least to the husky young man who was to be 
his son-in-law in thirty seconds. And then his eye 
traveled on to Don Powell, acting as best man, and on 
again to the visibly excited Ruth Carter, standing on 
the other side of Mary. 

The admiral sighed. It was an occasion for radiant 
youth, and he was no longer young. 

An hour later, a man and a girl in a smart little 
roadster automobile stopped their car in the middle of 
a bridge spanning a ravine, at the bottom of which a 
rock-studded brook trickled merrily. The couple 
were clothed for the road, but there was a betraying 
newness about their attire and an even more betraying 
happiness in their meditative eyes as they stared at the 
old bridge. Honeymooners, the farmer striding up the 
road behind them home from his work in the fields 
told himself after a glance. 

But he did not hear the rapt-eyed girl say to the 


316 THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME 

man: “See, Alan, there's the railing still broken. It 
was all that saved us going over the bank into the 
ravine, you remember. We went down the road and 
telephoned. And then you came. Think of it—this 
very bridge.” 

“It's a great old bridge,” was the young man’s some- 
1 what foolish comment. 

And then the farmer knew they were honeymooners. 
For, as if by a common impulse, they slipped into each’ 
other’s arms, and kissed as only honeymooners kiss. 

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